THE  OCTOPUS 


FRANK  NORRIS 


University  Library 
University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


/o 


THE  OCTOPUS 

A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


SEED 
KANCII 

Low  Grou.'kd. 

^«r^|       I 
Mi&lon 
San  yuan  de 
Guadhlalara 


l.l.PO*TE9,  EKOH. 


2.  Osterman's  Ranch  House. 
4.  Annixter's  Ranch  House. 


8.  Derrick's  Ranch  House. 
g.  Broderson's  Ranch  House. 


MAP  OF  THE  COUNTRY   DESCRIBED  IN   "THE  OCTOPUS." 


The  Epic  of  the  Wheat 

THE  OCTOPUS 

A  STORY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

BY 

FRANK  NORRIS 


NEW   YORK 
A.   WESSELS   COMPANY 

1906 


Copyright,  1901, 
by 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  Co. 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH  &  CO. 

BOOKBINDERS  AND  PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,  N.  Y- 


DEDICATED 

TO 
MY   WIFE 


PRINCIPAL  CHARACTERS   IN  THE   NOVEL. 

MAGNUS  DERRICK  (the  "  Governor  "),  proprietor  of  the  Los  MUERTOS 

RANCHO. 

ANNIE  DERRICK,  wife  of  Magnus  Derrick. 
LYMAN  DERRICK, 


sons  of  Magnus  Derrick. 
HARRAN  DERRICK,  ) 

BRODERSON,  ) 

>•  friends  and  neighbors  of  Magnus  Derrick. 

OSTERMAN,      ) 

ANNIXTKR,  proprietor  of  the  QUIEN  SABE  RANCHO. 

HILMA  TREE,  a  dairy  girl  on  Annixter's  ranch. 

GENSLINGER,  editor  of  the  Bonneville  "  Mercury,"  the  railroad  organ. 

S.  BEHRMAN,  representative  of  the  Pacific  and  Southwestern  Railroad, 

PRESLEY,  zprotigJoi  Magnus  Derrick. 

VANAMEE,  a  sheep  herder  and  range  rider. 

ANG£LE  VARIAN. 

FATHER  SARRIA,  a  Mission  priest. 

DYKE,  a  black-listed  railroad  engineer. 

MRS.  DYKE,  Dyke's  mother. 

SIDNEY  DYKE,  Dyke's  daughter. 

CARAHKR,  a  saloon  keeper. 

HOOVEN,  a  tenant  of  Derrick. 

MRS.  HOOVEN,  his  wife. 

MINNA  HOOVEN,  his  daughter. 

CEDARQUIST,  a  manufacturer  and  shipbuilder. 

MRS.  CEDARQUIST,  his  wife. 

GARNETT, 

DABNBY, 

•  ranchers  of  the  San  Toaquin  Valley. 
KEAST, 

CHATTERN,  . 


The  Trilogy  of  The  Epic  of  the  Wheat  will  include  the 
following  novels: 

THE  OCTOPUS,  a  Story  of  California. 
THE  PIT,  a  Story  of  Chicago. 
THE  WOLF,  a  Story  of  Europe. 

These  novels,  while  forming  a  series,  will  be  in  no  way 
connected  with  each  other  save  only  in  their  relation  to 
(i)  the  production,  (2)  the  distribution,  (3)  the  consump- 
tion of  American  wheat.  When  complete,  they  will  form 
the  story  of  a  crop  of  wheat  from  the  time  of  its  sowing 
as  seed  in  California  to  the  time  of  its  consumption  as 
bread  in  a  village  of  Western  Europe. 

The  first  novel,  "  The  Octopus,"  deals  with  the  war  be- 
tween the  wheat  grower  and  the  Railroad  Trust;  the 
second,  "  The  Pit,"  will  be  the  fictitious  narrative  of  a 
"  deal  "  in  the  Chicago  wheat  pit;  while  the  third,  "  The 
Wolf,"  will  probably  have  for  its  pivotal  episode  the  re- 
lieving of  a  famine  in  an  Old  World  community. 

F.  N. 

ROSELLE,  NEW  JERSEY, 
December  15,   1900. 


THE    OCTOPUS 

Booh  1 


Just  after  passing  Caraher's  saloon,  on  the  County 
Road  that  ran  south  from  Bonneville,  and  that  divided 
the  Broderson  ranch  from  that  of  Los  Muertos,  Presley 
was  suddenly  aware  of  the  faint  and  prolonged  blowing 
of  a  steam  whistle  that  he  knew  must  come  from  the  rail- 
road shops  near  the  depot  at  Bonneville.  In  starting 
out  from  the  ranch  house  that  morning,  he  had  forgotten 
his  watch,  and  was  now  perplexed  to  know  whether  the 
whistle  was  blowing  for  twelve  or  for  one  o'clock.  He 
hoped  the  former.  Early  that  morning  he  had  decided 
to  make  a  long  excursion  through  the  neighbouring 
country,  partly  on  foot  and  partly  on  his  bicycle,  and  now 
noon  was  come  already,  and  as  yet  he  had  hardly  started. 
As  he  was  leaving  the  house  after  breakfast,  Mrs.  Der- 
rick had  asked  him  to  go  for  the  mail  at  Bonneville,  and 
he  had  not  been  able  to  refuse. 

He  took  a  firmer  hold  of  the  cork  grips  of  his  handle- 
bars— the  road  being  in  a  wretched  condition  after  the 
recent  hauling  of  the  crop — and  quickened  his  pace. 
He  told  himself  that,  no  matter  what  the  time  was,  he 
would  not  stop  for  luncheon  at  the  ranch  house,  but 
would  push  on  to  Guadalajara  and  have  a  Spanish  dinner 
at  Solotari's,  as  he  had  originally  planned, 


4  The  Octopus 

There  had  not  been  much  of  a  crop  to  haul  that  year. 
Half  of  the  wheat  on  the  Broderson  ranch  had  failed 
entirely,  and  Derrick  himself  had  hardly  raised  more 
than  enough  to  supply  seed  for  the  winter's  sowing.  But 
such  little  hauling  as  there  had  been  had  reduced  the 
roads  thereabouts  to  a  lamentable  condition,  and,  during 
the  dry  season  of  the  past  few  months,  the  layer  of  dust 
had  deepened  and  thickened  to  such  an  extent  that  more 
than  once  Presley  was  obliged  to  dismount  and  trudge 
along  on  foot,  pushing  his  bicycle  in  front  of  him. 

It  was  the  last  half  of  September,  the  very  end  of  the 
dry  season,  and  all  Tulare  County,  all  the  vast  reaches  of 
the  San  Joaquin  Valley — in  fact  all  South  Central  Cali- 
fornia, was  bone  dry,  parched,  and  baked  and  crisped 
after  four  months  of  cloudless  weather,  when  the  day 
seemed  always  at  noon,  and  the  sun  blazed  white  hot 
over  the  valley  from  the  Coast  Range  in  the  west  to  the 
foothills  of  the  Sierras  in  the  east. 

As  Presley  drew  near  to  the  point  where  what  was 
known  as  the  Lower  Road  struck  off  through  the 
Rancho  de  Los  Muertos,  leading  on  to  Guadalajara,  he 
came  upon  one  of  the  county  watering-tanks,  a  great, 
iron-hooped  tower  of  wood,  straddling  clumsily  on  its 
four  uprights  by  the  roadside.  Since  the  day  of  its  com- 
pletion, the  storekeepers  and  retailers  of  Bonneville  had 
painted  their  advertisements  upon  it.  It  was  a  land- 
mark. In  that  reach  of  level  fields,  the  white  letters  upon 
it  could  be  read  for  miles.  A  watering-trough  stood 
near  by,  and,  as  he  was  very  thirsty,  Presley  resolved  to 
stop  for  a  moment  to  g"et  a  drink. 

He  drew  abreast  of  the  tank  and  halted  there,  leaning 
his  bicycle  against  the  fence.  A  couple  of  men  in  white 
overalls  were  repainting  the  surface  of  the  tank,  seated 
on  swinging  platforms  that  hung  by  hooks  from  the  roof. 
They  were  painting  a  sign — an  advertisement.  It  was 


A  Story  of  California  5 

all  but  finished  and  read,  "  S.  Behrman,  Real  Estate, 
Mortgages,  Main  Street,  Bonneville,  Opposite  the  Post 
Office."  On  the  horse-trough  that  stood  in  the  shadow 
of  the  tank  was  another  freshly  painted  inscription: 
"  S.  Behrman  Has  Something  To  Say  To  You." 

As  Presley  straightened  up  after  drinking  from  the 
faucet  at  one  end  of  the  horse-trough,  the  watering-cart 
itself  laboured  into  view  around  the  turn  of  the  Lower 
Road.  Two  mules  and  two  horses,  white  with  dust, 
strained  leisurely  in  the  traces,  moving  at  a  snail's  pace, 
their  limp  ears  marking  the  time;  while  perched  high 
upon  the  seat,  under  a  yellow  cotton  wagon  umbrella, 
Presley  recognised  Hooven,  one  of  Derrick's  tenants, 
a  German,  whom  every  one  called  "  Bismarck,"  an  excit- 
able little  man  with  a  perpetual  grievance  and  an  endless 
flow  of  broken  English. 

"  Hello,  Bismarck,"  said  Presley,  as  Hooven  brought 
his  team  to  a  standstill  by  the  tank,  preparatory  to  re- 
filling. 

"  Yoost  der  men  I  look  for,  Mist'r  Praicely,"  cried  the 
other,  twisting  the  reins  around  the  brake.  "  Yoost  one 
minute,  you  wait,  hey?  I  wanta  talk  mit  you." 

Presley  was  impatient  to  be  on  his  way  again.  A 
little  more  time  wasted,  and  the  day  would  be  lost.  He 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  management  of  the  ranch, 
and  if  Hooven  wanted  any  advice  from  him,  it  was  so 
much  breath  wasted.  These  uncouth  brutes  of  farm- 
hands and  petty  ranchers,  grimed  with  the  soil  they 
worked  upon,  were  odious  to  him  beyond  words.  Never 
could  he  feel  in  sympathy  with  them,  nor  with  their  lives, 
their  ways,  their  marriages,  deaths,  bickerings,  and  all 
the  monotonous  round  of  their  sordid  existence. 

"  Well,  you  must  be  quick  about  it,  Bismarck,"  he  an- 
swered sharply.  "  I'm  late  for  dinner,  as  it  is." 

"  Soh,  now.    Twp  minuten,  und  I  be  mit  you."    He 


6  The  Octopus 

drew  down  the  overhanging  spout  of  the  tank  to  the 
vent  in  the  circumference  of  the  cart  and  pulled  the  chain 
that  let  out  the  water.  Then  he  climbed  down  from  the 
seat,  jumping  from  the  tire  of  the  wheel,  and  taking  Pres- 
ley by  the  arm  led  him  a  few  steps  down  the  road. 

"  Say,"  he  began.  "  Say,  I  want  to  hef  some  conver- 
zations  mit  you.  Yoost  der  men  I  want  to  see.  Say, 
Caraher,  he  tole  me  dis  morgen — say,  he  tole  me  Mist'r 
Derrick  gowun  to  farm  der  whole  demn  rench  hisseluf  der 
next  yahr.  No  more  tenants.  Say,  Caraher,  he  tole  me 
all  der  tenants  get  der  sach;  Mist'r  Derrick  gowun  to 
work  der  whole  demn  rench  hisseluf,  hey?  Me,  I  get  der 
sach  alzoh,  hey?  You  hef  hear  about  dose  ting?  Say, 
me,  I  hef  on  der  ranch  been  sieben  yahr — seven  yahr. 
Do  I  alzoh " 

"  You'll  have  to  see  Derrick  himseH  or  Harran  about 
that,  Bismarck,"  interrupted  Presley,  trying  to  draw 
away.  "  That's  something  outside  of  me  entirely." 

But  Hooven  was  not  to  be  put  off.  No  doubt  he  had 
been  meditating  his  speech  all  the  morning,  formulating 
his  words,  preparing  his  phrases. 

"  Say,  no,  no,"  he  continued.  "  Me,  I  wanta  stay  bei 
der  place;  seven  yahr  I  hef  stay.  Mist'r  Derrick,  he 
doand  want  dot  I  should  be  ge-sacked.  Who,  den,  will 
der  ditch  ge-tend?  Say,  you  tell  'um  Bismarck  hef  gotta 
sure  stay  bei  der  place.  Say,  you  hef  der  pull  mit  der 
Governor.  You  speak  der  gut  word  for  me." 

"  Harran  is  the  man  that  has  the  pull  with  his  father, 
Bismarck,"  answered  Presley.  "  You  get  Harran  to 
speak  for  you,  and  you're  all  right." 

"  Sieben  yahr  I  hef  stay,"  protested  Hooven,  "  and 
who  will  der  ditch  ge-tend,  und  alle  dem  cettles  drive?  " 

"  Well,  Harran's  your  man,"  answered  Presley,  pre- 
paring to  mount  his  bicycle. 

"  Say,  you  hef  hear  about  dose  ting?  " 


A  Story  of  California  7 

"  I  don't  hear  about  anything,  Bismarck.  I  don't  know 
the  first  thing  about  how  the  ranch  is  run." 

"  Und  der  pipe-line  ge-mend,"  Hooven  burst  out,  sud- 
denly remembering  a  forgotten  argument.  He  waved 
an  arm.  "  Ach,  der  pipe-line  bei  der  Mission  Greek, 
und  der  waater-hole  for  dose  cettles.  Say,  he  doand  doo 
ut  himselluf,  berhaps,  I  doand  tink." 

"  Well,  talk  to  Harran  about  it." 

"  Say,  he  doand  farm  der  whole  demn  rench  bei  his- 
seluf.  Me,  I  gotta  stay." 

But  on  a  sudden  the  water  in  the  cart  gushed  over  the 
sides  from  the  vent  in  the  top  with  a  smart  sound  of 
splashing.  Hooven  was  forced  to  turn  his  attention  to 
it.  Presley  got  his  wheel  under  way. 

"  I  hef  some  converzations  mit  Herran,"  Hooven 
called  after  him.  "  He  doand  doo  ut  bei  hisseluf,  den, 
Mist'r  Derrick;  ach,  no.  I  stay  bei  der  rench  to  drive 
dose  cettles." 

He  climbed  back  to  his  seat  under  the  wagon  um- 
brella, and,  as  he  started  his  team  again  with  great  cracks 
of  his  long  whip,  turned  to  the  painters  still  at  work 
upon  the  sign  and  declared  with  some  defiance: 

"  Sieben  yahr;  yais,  sir,  seiben  yahr  I  hef  been  on  dis 
rench.  Git  oop,  yotr  mule  you,  hoop!" 

Meanwhile  Presley  had  turned  into  the  Lower  Road. 
He  was  now  on  Derrick's  land,  division  No.  i,  or,  as  it 
was  called,  the  Home  ranch,  of  the  great  Los  Muertos 
Rancho.  The  road  was  better  here,  the  dust  laid  after 
the  passage  of  Hooven's  watering-cart,  and,  in  a  few 
minutes,  he  had  come  to  the  ranch  house  itself,  with  its 
white  picket  fence,  its  few  flower  beds,  and  grove  of 
eucalyptus  trees.  On  the  lawn  at  the  side  of  the  house, 
he  saw  Harran  in  the  act  of  setting  out  the  automatic 
sprinkler.  In  the  shade  of  the  house,  by  the  porch,  were 
two  or  three  of  the  greyhounds,  part  of  the  pack  that 


8  The  Octopus 

were  used  to  hunt  down  jack-rabbits,  and  Godfrey,  Har- 
ran's  prize  deerhound. 

Presley  wheeled  up  the  driveway  and  met  Harran  by; 
the  horse-block.  Harran  was  Magnus  Derrick's  young- 
est son,  a  very  well-looking  young  fellow  of  twenty- 
three  or  twenty-five.  He  had  the  fine  carriage  that 
marked  his  father,  and  still  further  resembled  him  in  that 
he  had  the  Derrick  nose — hawk-like  and  prominent,  such 
as  one  sees  in  the  later  portraits  of  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton. He  was  blond,  and  incessant  exposure  to  the  sun 
had,  instead  of  tanning  him  brown,  merely  heightened 
the  colour  of  his  cheeks.  His  yellow  hair  had  a  tendency 
to  curl  in  a  forward  direction,  just  in  front  of  the  ears. 

Beside  him,  Presley  made  the  sharpest  of  contrasts. 
Presley  .seemed  to  have  come  of  a  mixed  origin;  ap- 
peared to  have  a  nature  more  composite,  a  temperament 
more  complex.  Unlike  Harran  Derrick,  he  seemed  more 
of  a  character  than  a  type.  The  sun  had  browned  his 
face  till  it  was  almost  swarthy.  His  eyes  were  a  dark 
brown,  and  his  forehead  was  the  forehead  of  the  intel- 
lectual, wide  and  high,  with  a  certain  unmistakable  lift 
about  it  that  argued  education,  not  only  of  himself,  but 
of  his  people  before  him.  The  impression  conveyed  by 
his  mouth  and  chin  was  that  of  a  delicate  and  highly  sen- 
sitive nature,  the  lips  thin  and  loosely  shut  together,  the 
chin  small  and  rather  receding.  One  guessed  that 
Presley's  refinement  had  been  gained  only  by  a  certain 
loss  of  strength.  One  expected  to  find  him  nervous, 
introspective,  to  discover  that  his  mental  life  was  not  at 
all  the  result  of  impressions  and  sensations  that  came  to 
him  from  without,  but  rather  of  thoughts  and  reflections 
germinating  from  within.  Though  morbidly  sensitive 
to  changes  in  his  physical  surroundings,  he  would  be 
slow  to  act  upon  such  sensations,  would  not  prove  im- 
pulsive, not  because  he  was  sluggish,  but  because  he  was 


A  Story  of  California  9 

merely  irresolute.  It  could  be  foreseen  that  morally  he 
was  of  that  sort  who  avoid  evil  through  good  taste,  lack 
of  decision,  and  want  of  opportunity.  His  temperament 
was  that  of  the  poet;  when  he  told  himself  he  had  been 
thinking,  he  deceived  himself.  He  had,  on  such  occa- 
sions, been  only  brooding. 

Some  eighteen  months  before  this  time,  he  had  been 
threatened  with  consumption,  and,  taking  advantage  of 
a  standing  invitation  on  the  part  of  Magnus  Derrick,  had 
come  to  stay  in  the  dry,  even  climate  of  the  San  Joaquin 
for  an  indefinite  length  of  time.  He  was  thirty  years  old, 
and  had  graduated  and  post-graduated  with  high  hon- 
ours from  an  Eastern  college,  where  he  had  devoted 
himself  to  a  passionate  study  of  literature,  and,  more 
especially,  of  poetry. 

It  was  his  insatiable  ambition  to  write  verse.  But  up 
to  this  time,  his  work  had  been  fugitive,  ephemeral,  a  note 
here  and  there,  heard,  appreciated,  and  forgotten.  He 
was  in  search  of  a  subject;  something  magnificent,  he  did 
not  know  exactly  what;  some  vast,  tremendous  theme, 
heroic,  terrible,  to  be  unrolled  in  all  the  thundering  pro- 
gression of  hexameters. 

But  whatever  he  wrote,  and  in  whatever  fashion,  Pres- 
ley was  determined  that  his  poem  should  be  of  the  West, 
that  world's  frontier  of  Romance,  where  a  new  race,  a 
new  people — hardy,  brave,  and  passionate — were  build- 
ing an  empire;  where  the  tumultuous  life  ran  like  fire 
from  dawn  to  dark,  and  from  dark  to  dawn  again,  primi- 
tive, brutal,  honest,  and  without  fear.  Something  (to 
his  idea  not  much)  had  been  done  to  catch  at  that  life  in 
passing,  but  its  poet  had  not  yet  arisen.  The  few  spo- 
radic attempts,  thus  he  told  himself,  had  only  touched 
the  keynote.  He  strove  for  the  diapason,  the  great  song 
that  should  embrace  in  itself  a  whole  epoch,  a  complete 
era,  the  voice  of  an  entire  people,  wherein  all  people 


io  The  Octopus 

should  be  included — they  and  their  legends,  their  folk 
lore,  their  fightings,  their  loves  and  their  lusts,  their 
blunt,  grim  humour,  their  stoicism  under  stress,  their 
adventures,  their  treasures  found  in  a  day  and  gambled 
in  a  night,  their  direct,  crude  speech,  their  generosity  and 
cruelty,  their  heroism  and  bestiality,  their  religion  and 
profanity,  their  self-sacrifice  and  obscenity — a  true  and 
fearless  setting  forth  of  a  passing  phase  of  history,  un- 
compromising, sincere ;  each  group  in  its  proper  environ- 
ment; the  valley,  the  plain,  and  the  mountain;  the  ranch, 
the  range,  and  the  mine — all  this,  all  the  traits  and  types 
of  every  community  from  the  Dakotas  to  the  Mexicos, 
from  Winnipeg  to  Guadalupe,  gathered  together,  swept 
together,  welded  and  riven  together  in  one  single, 
mighty  song,  the  Song  of  the  West.  That  was  what  he 
dreamed,  while  things  without  names — thoughts  for 
which  no  man  had  yet  invented  words,  terrible  formless 
shapes,  vague  figures,  colossal,  monstrous,  distorted — 
whirled  at  a  gallop  through  his  imagination. 

As  Harran  came  up,  Presley  reached  down  into  the 
pouches  of  the  sun-bleached  shooting  coat  he  wore  and 
drew  out  and  handed  him  the  packet  of  letters  and 
papers. 

"  Here's  the  mail.    I  think  I  shall  go  on." 

"  But  dinner  is  ready/'  said  Harran;  "we  are  just 
sitting  down." 

Presley  shook  his  head.  "  No,  I'm  in  a  hurry.  Per- 
haps I  shall  have  something  to  eat  at  Guadalajara.  I 
shall  be  gone  all  day." 

He  delayed  a  few  moments  longer,  tightening  a  loose 
nut  on  his  forward  wheel,  while  Harran,  recognising  his 
father's  handwriting  on  one  of  the  envelopes,  slit  it  open 
and  cast  his  eye  rapidly  over  its  pages. 

"  The  Governor  is  coming  home,"  he  exclaimed,  "  to- 
morrow morning  on  the  early  train ;  wants  me  to  meet 


A  Story  of  California  1 1 

him  with  the  team  at  Guadalajara;  and,"  he  cried  be- 
tween his  clenched  teeth,  as  he  continued  to  read, 
"  we've  lost  the  case." 

"  What  case?     Oh,  in  the  matter  of  rates?  " 

Harran  nodded,  his  eyes  flashing,  his  face  growing 
suddenly  scarlet. 

"  Ulsteen  gave  his  decision  yesterday,"  he  continued, 
reading  from  his  father's  letter.  "  He  holds,  Ulsteen 
does,  that  '  grain  rates  as  low  as  the  new  figure  would 
amount  to  confiscation  of  property,  and  that,  on  such  a 
basis,  the  railroad  could  not  be  operated  at  a  legitimate 
profit.  As  he  is  powerless  to  legislate  in  the  matter,  he 
can  only  put  the  rates  back  at  what  they  originally  were 
before  the  commissioners  made  the  cut,  and  it  is  so  or- 
dered.' That's  our  friend  S.  Behrman  again,"  added 
Harran,  grinding  his  teeth.  "  He  was  up  in  the  city  the 
whole  of  the  time  the  new  schedule  was  being  drawn,  and 
he  and  Ulsteen  and  the  Railroad  Commission  were  as 
thick  as  thieves.  He  has  been  up  there  all  this  last  week, 
too,  doing  the  railroad's  dirty  work,  and  backing  Ulsteen 
up.  '  Legitimate  profit,  legitimate  profit,'  "  he  broke 
out.  "  Can  we  raise  wheat  at  a  legitimate  profit  with  a 
tariff  of  four  dollars  a  ton  for  moving  it  two  hundred 
miles  to  tide-water,  with  wheat  at  eighty-seven  cents? 
Why  not  hold  us  up  with  a  gun  in  our  faces,  and  say, 
*  hands  up/  and  be  done  with  it  ?  " 

He  dug  his  boot-heel  into  the  ground  and  turned  away 
to  the  house  abruptly,  cursing  beneath  his  breath. 

"  By  the  way,"  Presley  called  after  him,  "  Hooven 
wants  to  see  you.  He  asked  me  about  this  idea  of  the 
Governor's  of  getting  along  without  the  tenants  this 
year.  Hooven  wants  to  stay  to  tend  the  ditch  and  look 
after  the  stock.  I  told  him  to  see  you." 

Harran,  his  mind  full  of  other  things,  nodded  to  say 
he  understood.  Presley  only  waited  till  he  had  disap- 


12  The  Octopus 

peared  indoors,  so  that  he  might  not  seem  too  indifferent 
to  his  trouble;  then,  remounting,  struck  at  once  into  a 
brisk  pace,  and,  turning  out  from  the  carriage  gate,  held 
on  swiftly  down  the  Lower  Road,  going  in  the  direction 
of  Guadalajara.  These  matters,  these  eternal  fierce 
bickerings  between  the  farmers  of  the  San  Joaquin  and 
the  Pacific  and  Southwestern  Railroad  irritated  him  and 
wearied  him.  He  cared  for  none  of  these  things.  They 
did  not  belong  to  his  world.  In  the  picture  of  that  huge 
romantic  West  that  he  saw  in  his  imagination,  these 
dissensions  made  the  one  note  of  harsh  colour  that  re- 
fused to  enter  into  the  great  scheme  of  harmony.  It 
was  material,  sordid,  deadly  commonplace.  But,  how- 
ever he  strove  to  shut  his  eyes  to  it  or  his  ears  to  it,  the 
thing  persisted  and  persisted.  The  romance  seemed 
complete  up  to  that  point.  There  it  broke,  there  it 
failed,  there  it  became  realism,  grim,  unlovely,  unyield- 
ing. To  be  true — and  it  was  the  first  article  of  his  creed 
to  b«  unflinchingly  true — he  could  not  ignore  it.  All  the 
noble  poetry  of  the  ranch — the  valley — seemed  in  his 
mind  to  be  marred  and  disfigured  by  the  presence  of 
certain  immovable  facts.  Just  what  he  wanted,  Presley 
hardly  knew.  On  one  hand,  it  was  his  ambition  to 
portray  life  as  he  saw  it — directly,  frankly,  and  through 
no  medium  of  personality  or  temperament.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  as  well,  he  wished  to  see  everything  through 
a  rose-coloured  mist — a  mist  that  dulled  all  harsh  out- 
lines, all  crude  and  violent  colours.  He  told  himself 
that,  as  a  part  of  the  people,  he  loved  the  people  and 
sympathised  with  their  hopes  and  fears,  and  joys  and 
griefs ;  and  yet  Hooven,  grimy  and  perspiring,  with  his 
perpetual  grievance  and  his  contracted  horizon,  only  re- 
volted him.  He  had  set  himself  the  task  of  giving  true, 
absolutely  true,  poetical  expression  to  the  life  of  the 
ranch,  and  yet,  again  and  again,  he  brought  up  against 


A  Story  of  California  13 

the  railroad,  that  stubborn  iron  barrier  against  which 
his  romance  shattered  itself  to  froth  and  disintegrated, 
flying  spume.  His  heart  went  out  to  the  people,  and  his 
groping  hand  met  that  of  a  slovenly  little  Dutchman, 
whom  it  was  impossible  to  consider  seriously.  He 
searched  for  the  True  Romance,  and,  in  the  end,  found 
grain  rates  and  unjust  freight  tariffs. 

"  But  the  stuff  is  here,"  he  muttered,  as  he  sent  his 
wheel  rumbling  across  the  bridge  over  Broderson 
Creek.  "  The  romance,  the  real  romance,  is  here  some- 
where. I'll  get  hold  of  it  yet." 

He  shot  a  glance  about  him  as  if  in  search  of  the  in- 
spiration. By  now  he  was  not  quite  half  way  across  the 
northern  and  narrowest  corner  of  Los  Muertos,  at  this 
point  some  eight  miles  wide.  He  was  still  on  the  Home 
ranch.  A  few  miles  to  the  south  he  could  just  make  out 
the  line  of  wire  fence  that  separated  it  from  the  third  di- 
vision ;  and  to  the  north,  seen  faint  and  blue  through  the 
haze  and  shimmer  of  the  noon  sun,  a  long  file  of  tele- 
graph poles  showed  the  line  of  the  railroad  and  marked 
Derrick's  northeast  boundary.  The  road  over  which 
Presley  was  travelling  ran  almost  diametrically  straight. 
In  front  of  him,  but  at  a  great  distance,  he  could  make 
out  the  giant  live-oak  and  the  red  roof  of  Hooven's  barn 
that  stood  near  it. 

All  about  him  the  country  was  flat.  In  all  directions 
he  could  see  for  miles.  The  harvest  was  just  over. 
Nothing  but  stubble  remained  on  the  ground.  With  the 
one  exception  of  the  live-oak  by  Hooven's  place,  there 
was  nothing  green  in  sight.  The  wheat  stubble  was  of 
a  dirty  yellow;  the  ground,  parched,  cracked,  and  dry, 
of  a  cheerless  brown.  By  the  roadside  the  dust  lay  thick 
and  grey,  and,  on  either  hand,  stretching  on  toward  the 
horizon,  losing  itself  in  a  mere  smudge  in  the  distance, 
ran  the  illimitable  parallels  of  the  wire  fence.  And  that 


14  The  Octopus 

was  all;  that  and  the  burnt-out  blue  of  the  sky  and  the 
steady  shimmer  of  the  heat. 

The  silence  was  infinite.  After  the  harvest,  small 
though  that  harvest  had  been,  the  ranches  seemed 
asleep.  It  was  as  though  the  earth,  after  its  period  of 
reproduction,  its  pains  of  labour,  had  been  delivered  of 
the  fruit  of  its  loins,  and  now  slept  the  sleep  of  exhaus- 
tion. 

It  was  the  period  between  seasons,  when  nothing  was 
being  done,  when  the  natural  forces  seemed  to  hang 
suspended.  There  was  no  rain,  there  was  no  wind, 
there  was  no  growth,  no  life;  the  very  stubble  had  no 
force  even  to  rot.  The  sun  alone  moved. 

Toward  two  o'clock,  Presley  reached  Hooven's 
place,  two  or  three  grimy  frame  buildings,  infested  with 
a  swarm  of  dogs.  A  hog  or  two  wandered  aimlessly 
about.  Under  a  shed  by  the  barn,  a  broken-down  seeder 
lay  rusting  to  its  ruin.  But  overhead,  a  mammoth  live- 
oak,  the  largest  tree  in  all  the  country-side,  towered 
superb  and  magnificent.  Grey  bunches  of  mistletoe  and 
festoons  of  trailing  moss  hung  from  its  bark.  From  its 
lowest  branch  hung  Hooven's  meat-safe,  a  square  box, 
faced  with  wire  screens. 

What  gave  a  special  interest  to  Hooven's  was  the  fact 
that  here  was  the  intersection  of  the  Lower  Road  and 
Derrick's  main  irrigating  ditch,  a  vast  trench  not  yet 
completed,  which  he  and  Annixter,  who  worked  the 
Quien  Sabe  ranch,  were  jointly  constructing.  It  ran  di- 
rectly across  the  road  and  at  right  angles  to  it,  and  lay  a 
deep  groove  in  the  field  between  Hooven's  and  the  town 
of  Guadalajara,  some  three  miles  farther  on.  Besides 
this,  the  ditch  was  a  natural  boundary  between  two  di- 
visions of  the  Los  Muertos  ranch,  the  first  and  fourth. 

Presley  now  had  the  choice  of  two  routes.  His  ob- 
jective point  was  the  spring  at  the  headwaters  of  Broder- 


A  Story  of  California  15 

son  Creek,  in  the  hills  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  Quien 
Sabe  ranch.  The  trail  afforded  him  a  short  cut  thither- 
ward. As  he  passed  the  house,  Mrs.  Hooven  came  to 
the  door,  her  little  daughter  Hilda,  dressed  in  a  boy's 
overalls  and  clumsy  boots,  at  her  skirts.  Minna,  her 
oldest  daughter,  a  very  pretty  girl,  whose  love  affairs 
were  continually  the  talk  of  all  Los  Muertos,  was  visible 
through  a  window  of  the  house,  busy  at  the  week's 
washing.  Mrs.  Hooven  was  a  faded,  colourless  woman, 
middle-aged  and  commonplace,  and  offering  not  the 
least  characteristic  that  would  distinguish  her  from  a 
thousand  other  women  of  her  class  and  kind.  She 
nodded  to  Presley,  watching  him  with  a  stolid  gaze  from 
under  her  arm,  which  she  held  across  her  forehead  to 
shade  her  eyes. 

But  now  Presley  exerted  himself  in  good  earnest. 
His  bicycle  flew.  He  resolved  that  after  all  he  would  go 
to  Guadalajara.  He  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  irrigat- 
ing ditch  with  a  brusque  spurt  of  hollow  sound,  and  shot 
forward  down  the  last  stretch  of  the  Lower  Road  that 
yet  intervened  between  Hooven's  and  the  town.  He  was 
on  the  fourth  division  of  the  ranch  now,  the  only  one 
whereon  the  wheat  had  been  successful,  no  doubt  be- 
cause of  the  Little  Mission  Creek  that  ran  through  it. 
But  he  no  longer  occupied  himself  with  the  landscape. 
His  only  concern  was  to  get  on  as  fast  as  possible.  He 
had  looked  forward  to  spending  nearly  the  whole  day  on 
the  crest  of  the  wooded  hills  in  the  northern  corner  of 
the  Quien  Sabe  ranch,  reading,  idling,  smoking  his  pipe. 
But  now  he  would  do  well  if  he  arrived  there  by  the  mid- 
dle of  the  afternoon.  In  a  few  moments  he  had  reached 
the  line  fence  that  marked  the  limits  of  the  ranch.  Here 
were  the  railroad  tracks,  and  just  beyond — a  huddled 
mass  of  roofs,  with  here  and  there  an  adobe  house  on  its 
outskirts — the  little  town  of  Guadalajara.  Nearer  at 


1 6  The  Octopus 

hand,  and  directly  in  front  of  Presley,  were  the  freight 
and  passenger  depots  of  the  P.  and  S.  W.,  painted  in  the 
grey  and  white,  which  seemed  to  be  the  official  colours 
of  all  the  buildings  owned  by  the  corporation.  The  sta- 
tion was  deserted.  No  trains  passed  at  this  hour.  From 
the  direction  of  the  ticket  window,  Presley  heard  the 
unsteady  chittering  of  the  telegraph  key.  In  the  shadow 
of  one  of  the  baggage  trucks  upon  the  platform,  the 
great  yellow  cat  that  belonged  to  the  agent  dozed  com- 
placently, her  paws  tucked  under  her  body.  Three  flat 
cars,  loaded  with  bright-painted  farming  machines, 
were  on  the  siding  above  the  station,  while,  on  the 
switch  below,  a  huge  freight  engine  that  lacked  its  cow- 
catcher sat  back  upon  its  monstrous  driving-wheels, 
motionless,  solid,  drawing  long  breaths  that  were  punc- 
tuated by  the  subdued  sound  of  its  steam-pump  clicking 
at  exact  intervals. 

But  evidently  it  had  been  decreed  that  Presley  should 
be  stopped  at  every  point  of  his  ride  that  day,  for,  as  he 
was  pushing  his  bicycle  across  the  tracks,  he  was  sur- 
prised to  hear  his  name  called.  "  Hello,  there,  Mr. 
Presley.  What's  the  good  word  ?  " 

Presley  looked  up  quickly,  and  saw  Dyke,  the  engi- 
neer, leaning  on  his  folded  arms  from  the  cab  window  of 
the  freight  engine.  But  at  the  prospect  of  this  further 
delay,  Presley  was  less  troubled.  Dyke  and  he  were  well 
acquainted  and  the  best  of  friends.  The  picturesqueness 
'of  the  engineer's  life  was  always  attractive  to  Presley, 
and  more  than  once  he  had  ridden  on  Dyke's  engine 
between  Guadalajara  and  Bonneville.  Once,  even,  he 
had  made  the  entire  run  between  the  latter  town  and 
San  Francisco  in  the  cab. 

Dyke's  home  was  in  Guadalajara.  He  lived  in  one  of 
the  remodelled  'dobe  cottages,  where  his  mother  kept 
house  for  him.  His  wife  had  died  some  five  years  before 


A  Story  of  California  1 7 

this  time,  leaving  him  a  little  daughter,  Sidney,  to  bring 
up  as  best  he  could.  Dyke  himself  was  a  heavy  built, 
well-looking  fellow,  nearly  twice  the  weight  of  Presley, 
with  great  shoulders  and  massive,  hairy  arms,  and  a 
tremendous,  rumbling  voice. 

"  Hello,  old  man,"  answered  Presley,  coming  up  to 
the  engine.  "  What  are  you  doing  about  here  at  this 
time  of  day?  I  thought  you  were  on  the  night  service 
this  month." 

"  We've  changed  about  a  bit,"  answered  the  other. 
"  Come  up  here  and  sit  down,  and  get  out  of  the  sun. 
They've  held  us  here  to  wait  orders,"  he  explained,  as 
Presley,  after  leaning  his  bicycle  against  the  tender, 
climbed  to  the  fireman's  seat  of  worn  green  leather. 
"  They  are  changing  the  run  of  one  of  the  crack  passen- 
ger engines  down  below,  and  are  sending  her  up  to 
Fresno.  There  was  a  smash  of  some  kind  on  the  Bakers- 
field  division,  and  she's  to  hell  and  gone  behind  her  time. 
I  suppose  when  she  comes,  she'll  come  a-humming.  It 
will  be  stand  clear  and  an  open  track  all  the  way  to 
Fresno.  They  have  held  me  here  to  let  her  go  by." 

He  took  his  pipe,  an  old  T.  D.  clay,  but  coloured  to  a 
beautiful  shiny  black,  from  the  pocket  of  his  jumper  and 
filled  and  lit  it. 

"  Well,  I  don't  suppose  you  object  to  being  held  here," 
observed  Presley.  "  Gives  you  a  chance  to  visit  your 
mother  and  the  little  girl." 

"  And  precisely  they  choose  this  day  to  go  up  to  Sac- 
ramento," answered  Dyke.  "Just  my  luck.  Went  up 
to  visit  my  brother's  people.  By  the  way,  my  brother 
may  come  down  here — locate  here,  I  mean — and  go  into 
the  hop-raising  business.  He's  got  an  option  on  five 
hundred  acres  just  back  of  the  town  here.  He  says 
there's  going  to  be  money  in  hops.  I  don't  know;  may- 
be I'll  go  in  with  him." 


1 8  The  Octopus 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  railroading?  " 

Dyke  drew  a  couple  of  puffs  on  his  pipe,  and  fixed 
Presley  with  a  glance. 

"There's   this  the   matter  with  it,"  he   said;   "I'm 
fired." 

"  Fired !    You !  "  exclaimed  Presley,  turning  abruptly 
toward  him. 

"  That's    what    I'm    telling    you,"    returned    Dyke 
grimly. 

"  You  don't  mean  it.    Why,  what  for,  Dyke  ?  " 

"  Now,  you  tell  me  what  for,"  growled  the  other  sav- 
agely. "  Boy  and  man,  I've  worked  for  the  P.  and  S.  W. 
for  over  ten  years,  and  never  one  yelp  of  a  complaint 
did  I  ever  hear  from  them.  They  know  damn  well 
they've  not  got  a  steadier  man  on  the  road.  And  more 
than  that,  more  than  that,  I  don't  belong  to  the  Brother- 
hood. And  when  the  strike  came  along,  I  stood  by  them 
— stood  by  the  company.  You  know  that.  And  you 
know,  and  they  know,  that  at  Sacramento  that  time,  I 
ran  my  train  according  to  schedule,  with  a  gun  in  each 
hand,  never  knowing  when  I  was  going  over  a  mined 
culvert,  and  there  was  talk  of  giving  me  a  gold  watch  at 
the  time.  To  hell  with  their  gold  watches !  I  want  or- 
dinary justice  and  fair  treatment.  And  now,  when  hard 
times  come  along,  and  they  are  cutting  wages,  what  do 
they  do  ?  Do  they  make  any  discrimination  in  my  case  ? 
Do  they  remember  the  man  that  stood  by  them  and 
risked  his  life  in  their  service  ?  No.  They  cut  my  pay 
down  just  as  off-hand  as  they  do  the  pay  of  any  dirty 
little  wiper  in  the  yard.  Cut  me  along  with — listen  to 
this — cut  me  along  with  men  that  they  had  black-listed; 
strikers  that  they  took  back  because  they  were  short  of 
hands."  He  drew  fiercely  on  his  pipe.  "  I  went  to  them, 
yes,  I  did;  I  went  to  the  General  Office,  and  ate  dirt.  I 
told  them  I  was  a  family  man,  and  that  I  didn't  see  hovf 


A  Story  of  California  19 

I  was  going  to  get  along  on  the  new  scale,  and  I  re- 
minded them  of  my  service  during  the  strike.  The  swine 
told  me  that  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  discriminate  in  favour 
of  one  man,  and  that  the  cut  must  apply  to  all  their  em- 
ployees alike.  Fair !  "  he  shouted  with  laughter.  "  Fair ! 
Hear  the  P.  and  S.  W.  talking  about  fairness  and  dis- 
crimination. That's  good,  that  is.  Well,  I  got  furious. 
I  was  a  fool,  I  suppose.  I  told  them  that,  in  justice  to 
myself,  I  wouldn't  do  first-class  work  for  third-class  pay. 
And  they  said,  '  Well,  Mr.  Dyke,  you  know  what  you 
can  do/  Well,  I  did  know.  I  said, '  I'll  ask  for  my  time, 
if  you  please/  and  they  gave  it  to  me  just  as  if  they  were 
glad  to  be  shut  of  me.  So  there  you  are,  Presley.  That's 
the  P.  &  S.  W.  Railroad  Company  of  California.  I  am 
on  my  last  run  now." 

"  Shameful,"  declared  Presley,  his  sympathies  all 
aroused,  now  that  the  trouble  concerned  a  friend  of  his. 
"  It's  shameful,  Dyke.  But,"  he  added,  an  idea  occur- 
ring to  him,  "  that  don't  shut  you  out  from  work.  There 
are  other  railroads  in  the  State  that  are  not  controlled 
by  the  P.  and  S.  W." 

Dyke  smote  his  knee  with  his  clenched  fist. 

"  Name  one." 

Presley  was  silent.  Dyke's  challenge  was  unanswer- 
able. There  was  a  lapse  in  their  talk,  Presley  drumming' 
on  the  arm  of  the  seat, meditating  on  this  injustice;  Dyke 
looking  off  over  the  fields  beyond  the  town,  his  frown 
lowering,  his  teeth  rasping  upon  his  pipestem.  The 
station  agent  came  to  the  door  of  the  depot,  stretching 
and  yawning.  On  ahead  of  the  engine,  the  empty  rails 
of  the  track,  reaching  out  toward  the  horizon,  threw 
off  visible  layers  of  heat.  The  telegraph  key  clicked  in- 
cessantly. 

"  So  I'm  going  to  quit,"  Dyke  remarked  after  a  while, 
his  anger  somewhat  subsided.  "  My  brother  and  I  will 


20  The  Octopus 

take  up  this  hop  ranch.    I've  saved  a  good  deal  in  the 
last  ten  years,  and  there  ought  to  be  money  in  hops." 

Presley  went  on,  remounting  his  bicycle,  wheeling 
silently  through  the  deserted  streets  of  the  decayed 
and  dying  Mexican  town.  It  was  the  hour  of  the  siesta. 
Nobody  was  about.  There  was  no  business  in  the  town. 
It  was  too  close  to  Bonneville  for  that.  Before  the  rail- 
road came,  and  in  the  days  when  the  raising  of  cattle 
was  the  great  industry  of  the  country,  it  had  enjoyed  a 
fierce  and  brilliant  life.  Now  it  was  moribund.  The 
drug  store,  the  two  bar-rooms,  the  hotel  at  the  corner  of 
the  old  Plaza,  and  the  shops  where  Mexican  "  curios  " 
were  sold  to  those  occasional  Eastern  tourists  who  came 
to  visit  the  Mission  of  San  Juan,  sufficed  for  the  town's 
activity. 

At  Solotari's,  the  restaurant  on  the  Plaza,  diagonally 
across  from  the  hotel,  Presley  ate  his  long-deferred 
Mexican  dinner — an  omelette  in  Spanish-Mexican  style, 
frijoles  and  tortillas,  a  salad,  and  a  glass  of  white  wine. 
In  a  corner  of  the  room,  during  the  whole  course  of  his 
dinner,  two  young  Mexicans  (one  of  whom  was  aston- 
ishingly handsome,  after  the  melodramatic  fashion  of  his 
race)  and  an  old  fellow,  the  centenarian  of  the  town, 
decrepit  beyond  belief,  sang  an  interminable  love-song 
to  the  accompaniment  of  a  guitar  and  an  accordion. 

These  Spanish-Mexicans,  decayed,  picturesque,  vi- 
cious, and  romantic,  never  failed  to  interest  Presley. 
A  few  of  them  still  remained  in  Guadalajara,  drifting 
from  the  saloon  to  the  restaurant,  and  from  the  restau- 
rant to  the  Plaza,  relics  of  a  former  generation,  standing 
for  a  different  order  of  things,  absolutely  idle,  living  God 
knew  how,  happy  with  their  cigarette,  their  guitar,  their 
glass  of  mescal,  and  their  siesta.  The  centenarian  re- 
membered Fremont  and  Governor  Alvarado,  and  the 
bandit  Jesus  Tejeda,  and  the  days  when  Los  Muertos 


A  Story  of  California  $i 

was  a  Spanish  grant,  a  veritable  principality,  leagues  in 
extent,  and  when  there  was  never  a  fence  from  Visalia 
to  Fresno.  Upon  this  occasion,  Presley  offered  the  old 
man  a  drink  of  mescal,  and  excited  him  to  talk  of  the 
things  he  remembered.  Their  talk  was  in  Spanish,  a 
language  with  which  Presley  was  familiar. 

"  De  La  Cuesta  held  the  grant  of  Los  Muertos  in  those 
days,"  the  centenarian  said ;  "  a  grand  man.  He  had 
the  power  of  life  and  death  over  his  people, and  there  was 
no  law  but  his  word.  There  was  no  thought  of  wheat 
then,  you  may  believe.  It  was  all  cattle  in  those  days, 
sheep,  horses — steers,  not  so  many — and  if  money  was 
scarce,  there  was  always  plenty  to  eat,  and  clothes 
enough  for  all,  and  wine,  ah,  yes,  by  the  vat,  and  oil  too ; 
the  Mission  Fathers  had  that.  Yes,  and  there  was  wheat 
as  well,  now  that  I  come  to  think ;  but  a  very  little — in  the 
field  north  of  the  Mission  where  now  it  is  the  Seed  ranch ; 
wheat  fields  were  there,  and  also  a  vineyard,  all  on  Mis- 
sion grounds.  Wheat,  olives,  and  the  vine;  the  Fathers 
planted  those,  to  provide  the  elements  of  the  Holy  Sacra- 
ment— bread,  oil,  and  wine,  you  understand.  It  was  like 
that,  those  industries  began  in  California — from  the 
Church ;  and  now,"  he  put  his  chin  in  the  air,  "  what 
would  Father  Ullivari  have  said  to  such  a  crop  as  Senor 
Derrick  plants  these  days?  Ten  thousand  acres  of 
wheat !  Nothing  but  wheat  from  the  Sierra  to  the  Coast 
Range.  I  remember  when  De  La  Cuesta  was  married. 
He  had  never  seen  the  young  lady,  only  her  miniature 
portrait,  painted  " — he  raised  a  shoulder — "  I  do  not 
know  by  whom,  small, a  little  thingto  be  held  in  the  palm. 
But  he  fell  in  love  with  that,  and  marry  her  he  would. 
The  affair  was  arranged  between  him  and  the  girl's 
parents.  But  when  the  time  came  that  De  La  Cuesta 
was  to  go  to  Monterey  to  meet  and  marry  the  girl,  be- 
hold, Jesus  Tejeda  broke  in  upon  the  small  rancherog 


22  The  Octopus 

near  Terrabella.  It  was  no  time  for  De  La  Cuesta  to 
be  away,  so  he  sent  his  brother  Esteban  to  Monterey 
to  marry  the  girl  by  proxy  for  him.  I  went  with  Esteban. 
We  were  a  company,  nearly  a  hundred  men.  And  De  La 
Cuesta  sent  a  horse  for  the  girl  to  ride,  white,  pure  white; 
and  the  saddle  was  of  red  leather;  the  head-stall,  the  bit, 
and  buckles,  all  the  metal  work,  of  virgin  silver.  Well, 
there  was  a  ceremony  in  the  Monterey  Mission,  and  Es- 
teban, in  the  name  of  his  brother,  was  married  to  the  girl. 
On  our  way  back,  De  La  Cuesta  rode  out  to  meet  us. 
His  company  met  ours  at  Agatha  dos  Palos.  Never 
will  I  forget  De  La  Cuesta's  face  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  the 
girl.  It  was  a  look,  a  glance,  come  and  gone  like  that" 
he  snapped  his  fingers.  "  No  one  but  I  saw  it,  but  I  was 
close  by.  There  was  no  mistaking  that  look.  De  La 
Cuesta  was  disappointed." 

"  And  the  girl  ?  "  demanded  Presley. 

"  She  never  knew.  Ah,  he  was  a  grand  gentleman,  De 
La  Cuesta.  Always  he  treated  her  as  a  queen.  Never 
was  husband  more  devoted,  more  respectful,  more  chiv- 
alrous. But  love  ?  "  The  old  fellow  put  his  chin  in  the 
air,  shutting  his  eyes  in  a  knowing  fashion.  "  It  was  not 
there.  I  could  tell.  They  were  married  over  again  at 
the  Mission  San  Juan  de  Guadalajara — our  Mission — and 
for  a  week  all  the  town  of  Guadalajara  was  in  fete.  There 
were  bull-fights  in  the  Plaza — this  very  one — for  five 
days,  and  to  each  of  his  tenants-in-chief,  De  La  Cuesta 
gave  a  horse,  a  barrel  of  tallow,  an  ounce  of  silver,  and 
half  an  ounce  of  gold  dust.  Ah,  those  were  days.  That 
was  a  gay  life.  This  " — he  made  a  comprehensive  ges- 
ture with  his  left  hand — "  this  is  stupid." 

u  You  may  well  say  that,"  observed  Presley  moodily, 
discouraged  by  the  other's  talk.  All  his  doubts  and  un- 
certainty had  returned  to  him.  Never  would  he  grasp 
the  subject  of  his  great  poem.  To-day,  the  life  was 


A  Story  of  California  23 

colourless.  Romance  was  dead.  He  had  lived  too  late. 
To  write  of  the  past  was  not  what  he  desired.  Reality 
was  what  he  longed  for,  things  that  he  had  seen.  Yet 
how  to  make  this  compatible  with  romance.  He  rose, 
putting  on  his  hat,  offering  the  old  man  a  cigarette.  The 
centenarian  accepted  with  the  air  of  a  grandee,  and  ex- 
tended his  horn  snuff-box.  Presley  shook  his  head. 

"  I  was  born  too  late  for  that/'  he  declared,  "  for  that, 
and  for  many  other  things.  Adios" 

"  You  are  travelling  to-day,  senor  ?  " 

"  A  little  turn  through  the  country,  to  get  the  kinks 
out  of  the  muscles,"  Presley  answered.  "  I  go  up  into 
the  Quien  Sabe,  into  the  high  country  beyond  the  Mis- 
sion." 

"Ah,  the  Quien  Sabe  rancho.  The  sheep  are  graz- 
ing there  this  week." 

Solotari,  the  keeper  of  the  restaurant,  explained: 

"  Young  Annixter  sold  his  wheat  stubble  on  the 
ground  to  the  sheep  raisers  off  yonder ; "  he  motioned 
eastward  toward  the  Sierra  foothills.  "  Since  Sunday  the 
herd  has  been  down.  Very  clever,  that  young  Annixter, 
He  gets  a  price  for  his  stubble,  which  else  he  would  have 
to  burn,  and  also  manures  his  land  as  the  sheep  move 
from  place  to  place.  A  true  Yankee,  that  Annixter,  a 
good  gringo." 

After  his  meal,  Presley  once  more  mounted  his  bicycle, 
and  leaving  the  restaurant  and  the  Plaza  behind  him, 
held  on  through  the  main  street  of  the  drowsing  town — 
the  street  that  farther  on  developed  into  the  road  which 
turned  abruptly  northward  and  led  onward  through  the 
hop-fields  and  the  Quien  Sabe  ranch  toward  the  Mission 
of  San  Juan. 

The  Home  ranch  of  the  Quien  Sabe  was  in  the  little 
triangle  bounded  on  the  south  by  the  railroad,  on  the 
northwest  by  Broderson  Creek,  and  on  the  east  by  the 


24  The  Octopus 

hop  fields  and  the  Mission  lands.  It  was  traversed  in  all 
directions,  now  by  the  trail  from  Hooven's,  now  by  the 
irrigating  ditch — the  same  which  Presley  had  crossed 
earlier  in  the  day — and  again  by  the  road  upon  which 
Presley  then  found  himself.  In  its  centre  were  Annixter's 
ranch  house  and  barns,  topped  by  the  skeleton-like  tower 
of  the  artesian  well  that  was  to  feed  the  irrigating  ditch. 
Farther  on,  the  course  of  Broderson  Creek  was  marked 
by  a  curved  line  of  grey-green  willows,  while  on  the 
low  hills  to  the  north,  as  Presley  advanced,  the  ancient 
Mission  of  San  Juan  de  Guadalajara,  with  its  belfry 
tower  and  red-tiled  roof,  began  to  show  itself  over  the 
crests  of  the  venerable  pear  trees  that  clustered  in  its 
garden. 

When  Presley  reached  Annixter's  ranch  house,  he 
found  young  Annixter  himself  stretched  in  his  hammock 
behind  the  mosquito-bar  on  the  front  porch,  reading 
"  David  Copperfield,"  and  gorging  himself  with  dried 
prunes. 

Annixter — after  the  two  had  exchanged  greetings — • 
complained  of  terrific  colics  all  the  preceding  night. 
His  stomach  was  out  of  whack,  but  you  bet  he  knew 
how  to  take  care  of  himself;  the  last  spell,  he  had  con- 
sulted a  doctor  at  Bonneville,  a  gibbering  busy-face  who 
had  filled  him  up  to  the  neck  with  a  dose  of  some  hog- 
wash  stuff  that  had  made  him  worse — a  healthy  lot  the 
doctors  knew,  anyhow.  His  case  was  peculiar.  He 
knew;  prunes  were  what  he  needed,  and  by  the  pound. 

Annixter,  who  worked  the  Quien  Sabe  ranch — some 
four  thousand  acres  of  rich  clay  and  heavy  loams — was  a 
very  young  man,  younger  even  than  Presley,  like  him 
a  college  graduate.  He  looked  never  a  year  older 
than  he  was.  He  was  smooth-shaven  and  lean  built. 
But  his  youthful  appearance  was  offset  by  a  certain  male 
cast  of  countenance,  the  lower  lip  thrust  out,  the  chin 


A  Story  of  California  25 

large  and  deeply  cleft.  His  university  course  had  hard- 
ened rather  than  polished  him.  He  still  remained  one 
of  the  people,  rough  almost  to  insolence, direct  in  speech, 
intolerant  in  his  opinions,  relying  upon  absolutely  no  one 
but  himself ;  yet,  with  all  this,  of  an  astonishing  degree  of 
intelligence,  and  possessed  of  an  executive  ability  little 
short  of  positive  genius.  He  was  a  ferocious  worker,  al- 
lowing himself  no  pleasures,  and  exacting  the  same  de- 
gree of  energy  from  all  his  subordinates.  He  was  widely 
hated,  and  as  widely  trusted.  Every  one  spoke  of  his 
crusty  temper  and  bullying  disposition,  invariably  quali- 
fying the  statement  with  a  commendation  of  his  re- 
sources and  capabilities.  The  devil  of  a  driver,  a  hard 
man  to  get  along  with,  obstinate,  contrary,  cantankerous ; 
but  brains!  No  doubt  of  that;  brains  to  his  boots.  One 
would  like  to  see  the  man  who  could  get  ahead  of  him  on 
a  deal.  Twice  he  had  been  shot  at,  once  from  ambush 
on  Osterman's  ranch,  and  once  by  one  of  his  own  men 
whom  he  had  kicked  from  the  sacking  platform  of  his 
harvester  for  gross  negligence.  At  college,  he  had  spe- 
cialised on  finance,  political  economy,  and  scientific  ag- 
riculture. After  his  graduation  (he  stood  almost  at  the 
very  top  of  his  class)  he  had  returned  and  obtained  the 
degree  of  civil  engineer.  Then  suddenly  he  had  taken  a 
notion  that  a  practical  knowledge  of  law  was  indispens- 
able to  a  modern  farmer.  In  eight  months  he  did  the 
work  of  three  years,  studying  for  his  bar  examinations. 
His  method  of  study  was  characteristic.  He  reduced  all 
the  material  of  his  text-books  to  notes.  Tearing  out  the 
leaves  of  these  note-books,  he  pasted  them  upon  the 
walls  of  his  room;  then,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  a  cheap  cigar 
in  his  teeth,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  he  walked  around 
and  around  the  room,  scowling  fiercely  at  his  notes, 
memorising,  devouring,  digesting.  At  intervals, he  drank 
great  cupfuls  of  unsweetened,  black  coffee.  When  the 


26  The  Octopus 

bar  examinations  were  held,  he  was  admitted  at  the  very 
head  of  all  the  applicants,  and  was  complimented  by  the 
judge.  Immediately  afterwards,  he  collapsed  with 
nervous  prostration;  his  stomach  "  got  out  of  whack," 
and  he  all  but  died  in  a  Sacramento  boarding-house,  ob- 
stinately refusing  to  have  anything  to  do  with  doctors, 
whom  he  vituperated  as  a  rabble  of  quacks,  dosing  him- 
self with  a  patent  medicine  and  stuffing  himself  almost 
to  bursting  with  liver  pills  and  dried  prunes. 

He  had  taken  a  trip  to  Europe  after  this  sickness  to 
put  himself  completely  to  rights.  He  intended  to  be 
gone  a  year,  but  returned  at  the  end  of  six  weeks,  ful- 
minating abuse  of  European  cooking.  Nearly  his  entire 
time  had  been  spent  in  Paris;  but  of  this  sojourn  he  had 
brought  back  but  two  souvenirs,  an  electro-plated  bill- 
hook and  an  empty  bird  cage  which  had  tickled  his  fancy 
immensely. 

He  was  wealthy.  Only  a  year  previous  to  this  his 
father — a  widower,  who  had  amassed  a  fortune  in  land 
speculation — had  died,  and  Annixter,  the  only  son,  had 
come  into  the  inheritance. 

For  Presley,  Annixter  professed  a  great  admiration, 
holding  in  deep  respect  the  man  who  could  rhyme  words, 
deferring  to  him  whenever  there  was  question  of  litera- 
ture or  works  of  fiction.  No  doubt,  there  was  not  much 
use  in  poetry,  and  as  for  novels,  to  his  mind,  there  were 
only  Dickens's  works.  Everything  else  was  a  lot  of  lies. 
But  just  the  same,  it  took  brains  to  grind  out  a  poem.  It 
wasn't  every  one  who  could  rhyme  "  brave "  and 
"  glaive,"  and  make  sense  out  of  it.  Sure  not. 

But  Presley's  case  was  a  notable  exception.  On  no 
occasion  was  Annixter  prepared  to  accept  another  man's 
opinion  without  reserve.  In  conversation  with  him,  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  make  any  direct  statement, 
however  trivial,  that  he  would  accept  without  either  modi- 


A  Story  of  California  27 

fication  or  open  contradiction.  He  had  a  passion  for 
violent  discussion.  He  would  argue  upon  every  subject 
in  the  range  of  human  knowledge,  from  astronomy  to 
the  tariff,  from  the  doctrine  of  predestination  to  the 
height  of  a  horse.  Never  would  he  admit  himself  to  be 
mistaken;  when  cornered,  he  would  intrench  himself 
behind  the  remark,  "  Yes,  that's  all  very  well.  In  some 
ways,  it  is,  and  then,  again,  in  some  ways,  it  isn't" 

Singularly  enough,  he  and  Presley  were  the  best  of 
friends.  More  than  once,  Presley  marvelled  at  this  state 
of  affairs,  telling  himself  that  he  and  Annixter  had  noth- 
ing in  common.  In  all  his  circle  of  acquaintances,  Pres- 
ley was  the  one  man  with  whom  Annixter  had  never 
quarrelled.  The  two  men  were  diametrically  opposed 
in  temperament.  Presley  was  easy-going;  Annixter, 
alert.  Presley  was  a  confirmed  dreamer,  irresolute,  in- 
active, with  a  strong  tendency  to  melancholy;  the  young 
farmer  was  a  man  of  affairs,  decisive,  combative,  whose 
only  reflection  upon  his  interior  economy  was  a  morbid 
concern  in  the  vagaries  of  his  stomach.  Yet  the  two 
never  met  without  a  mutual  pleasure,  taking  a  genuine 
interest  in  each  other's  affairs,  and  often  putting  them- 
selves to  great  inconvenience  to  be  of  trifling  service  to 
help  one  another. 

As  a  last  characteristic,  Annixter  pretended  to  be  a 
woman-hater,  for  no  other  reason  than  that  he  was  a 
very  bull-calf  of  awkwardness  in  feminine  surroundings. 
Feemales !  Rot !  There  was  a  fine  way  for  a  man  to 
waste  his  time  and  his  good  money,  lally  gagging  with  a 
lot  of  feemales.  No,  thank  you ;  none  of  it  in  his,  if  you 
please.  Once  only  he  had  an  affair — a  timid,  little 
creature  in  a  glove-cleaning  establishment  in  Sacra- 
mento, whom  he  had  picked  up,  Heaven  knew  how. 
After  his  return  to  his  ranch,  a  correspondence  had  been 
maintained  between  the  two,  Annixter  taking  the  pre- 


28  The  Octopus 

caution  to  typewrite  his  letters,  and  never  affixing  his 
signature,  in  an  excess  of  prudence.  He  furthermore 
made  carbon  copies  of  all  his  letters,  filing  them  away  in 
a  compartment  of  his  safe.  Ah,  it  would  be  a  clever 
feemale  who  would  get  him  into  a  mess.  Then,  suddenly 
smitten  with  a  panic  terror  that  he  had  committed  him- 
self, that  he  was  involving  himself  too  deeply,  he  had 
abruptly  sent  the  little  woman  about  her  business.  It 
was  his  only  love  affair.  After  that,  he  kept  himself  free. 
No  petticoats  should  ever  have  a  hold  on  him.  Sure  not. 

As  Presley  came  up  to  the  edge  of  the  porch,  pushing 
his  bicycle  in  front  of  him,  Annixter  excused  himself 
for  not  getting  up,  alleging  that  the  cramps  returned  the 
moment  he  was  off  his  back. 

"  What  are  you  doing  up  this  way  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Oh,  just  having  a  look  around,"  answered  Presley. 
"How's  the  ranch?" 

"  Say/'  observed  the  other,  ignoring  his  question, 
"  what's  this  I  hear  about  Derrick  giving  his  tenants 
the  bounce,  and  working  Los  Muertos  himself — work- 
ing all  his  land?  " 

Presley  made  a  sharp  movement  of  impatience  with 
his  free  hand.  "  I've  heard  nothing  else  myself  since 
morning.  I  suppose  it  must  be  so." 

"  Huh ! "  grunted  Annixter,  spitting  out  a  prune 
stone.  "  You  give  Magnus  Derrick  my  compliments 
and  tell  him  he's  a  fool." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  Derrick  thinks  he's  still  running  his  mine, 
and  that  the  same  principles  will  apply  to  getting  grain 
out  of  the  earth  as  to  getting  gold.  Oh,  let  him  go  on 
and  see  where  he  brings  up.  That's  right,  there's  your 
Western  farmer,"  he  exclaimed  contemptuously.  "  Get 
the  guts  out  of  your  land ;  work  it  to  death ;  never  give 
it  a  rest.  Never  alternate  your  crop,  and  then  when 


A  Story  of  California  29 

your  soil  is  exhausted,  sit  down  and  roar  about  hard 
times." 

"  I  suppose  Magnus  thinks  the  land  has  had  rest 
enough  these  last  two  dry  seasons,"  observed  Presley. 
"  He  has  raised  no  crop  to  speak  of  for  two  years.  The 
land  has  had  a  good  rest." 

"  Ah,  yes,  that  sounds  well,"  Annixter  contradicted, 
unwilling  to  be  convinced.  "  In  a  way,  the  land's  been 
rested,  and  then,  again,  in  a  way,  it  hasn't" 

But  Presley,  scenting  an  argument,  refrained  from 
answering,  and  bethought  himself  of  moving  on. 

"  I'm  going  to  leave  my  wheel  here  for  a  while,  Buck," 
he  said,  "  if  you  don't  mind.  I'm  going  up  to  the  spring, 
and  the  road  is  rough  between  here  and  there." 

"  Stop  in  for  dinner  on  your  way  back,"  said  Annixter. 
"  There'll  be  a  venison  steak.  One  of  the  boys  got  a 
deer  over  in  the  foothills  last  week.  Out  of  season,  but 
never  mind  that.  I  can't  eat  it.  This  stomach  of  mine 
wouldn't  digest  sweet  oil  to-day.  Get  here  about  six." 

"  Well,  maybe  I  will,  thank  you,"  said  Presley,  mov- 
ing off.  "  By  the  way,"  he  added,  "  I  see  your  barn  is 
about  done." 

"  You  bet,"  answered  Annixter.  "  In  about  a  fort- 
night now  she'll  be  all  ready." 

"  It's  a  big  barn,"  murmured  Presley,  glancing 
around  the  angle  of  the  house  toward  where  the  great 
structure  stood. 

"  Guess  we'll  have  to  have  a  dance  there  before  we 
move  the  stock  in,"  observed  Annixter.  "  That's  the 
custom  all  around  here." 

Presley  took  himself  off,  but  at  the  gate  Annixter 
called  after  him,  his  mouth  full  of  prunes,  "  Say,  take  a 
look  at  that  herd  of  sheep  as  you  go  up.  They  are  right 
off  here  to  the  east  of  the  road,  about  half  a  mile  from 
here.  I  guess  that's  the  biggest  lot  of  sheep  you  ever 


30  The  Octopus 

saw.    You  might  write  a  poem  about  'em.    Lamb — ram ; 
sheep  graze — sunny  days.     Catch  on?" 

Beyond  Broderson  Creek,  as  Presley  advanced, 
tramping  along  on  foot  now,  the  land  opened  out  again 
into  the  same  vast  spaces  of  dull  brown  earth, 
sprinkled  with  stubble,  such  as  had  been  characteristic 
of  Derrick's  ranch.  To  the  east  the  reach  seemed  in- 
finite, flat,  cheerless,  heat-ridden,  unrolling  like  a  gigantic 
scroll  toward  the  faint  shimmer  of  the  distant  horizons, 
with  here  and  there  an  isolated  live-oak  to  break  the 
sombre  monotony.  But  bordering  the  road  to  the  west- 
ward, the  surface  roughened  and  raised,  clambering  up 
to  the  higher  ground,  on  the  crest  of  which  the  old  Mis- 
sion and  its  surrounding  pear  trees  were  now  plainly 
visible. 

Just  beyond  the  Mission,  the  road  bent  abruptly  east- 
ward, striking  off  across  the  Seed  ranch.  But  Presley 
left  the  road  at  this  point,  going  on  across  the  open 
fields.  There  was  no  longer  any  trail.  It  was  toward 
three  o'clock.  The  sun  still  spun,  a  silent,  blazing  disc, 
high  in  the  heavens,  and  tramping  through  the  clods  of 
uneven,  broken  plough  was  fatiguing  work.  The  slope 
of  the  lowest  foothills  begun,  the  surface  of  the  country 
became  rolling,  and,  suddenly,  as  he  topped  a  higher 
ridge,  Presley  came  upon  the  sheep. 

Already  he  had  passed  the  larger  part  of  the  herd — an 
intervening  rise  of  ground  having  hidden  it  from  sight. 
Now,  as  he  turned  half  way  about,  looking  down  into  the 
shallow  hollow  between  him  and  the  curve  of  the  creek, 
he  saw  them  very  plainly.  The  fringe  of  the  herd  was 
some  two  hundred  yards  distant,  but  its  farther  side,  in 
that  illusive  shimmer  of  hot  surface  air,  seemed  miles 
away.  The  sheep  were  spread  out  roughly  in  the  shape 
of  a  figure  eight,  two  larger  herds  connected  by  a 
smaller,  and  were  headed  to  the  southward,  moving 


A  Story  of  California  31 

slowly,  grazing  on  the  wheat  stubble  as  they  proceeded. 
But  the  number  seemed  incalculable.  Hundreds  upon 
hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  grey,  rounded  backs,  all  ex- 
actly alike,  huddled,  close-packed,  alive,  hid  the  earth 
from  sight.  It  was  no  longer  an  aggregate  of  individuals. 
It  was  a  mass — a  compact,  solid,  slowly  moving  mass, 
huge,  without  form,  like  a  thick-pressed  growth  of  mush- 
rooms, spreading  out  in  all  directions  over  the  earth. 
From  it  there  arose  a  vague  murmur,  confused,  inartic- 
ulate, like  the  sound  of  very  distant  surf,  while  all  the  air 
in  the  vicinity  was  heavy  with  the  warm,  ammoniacal 
odour  of  the  thousands  of  crowding  bodies. 

All  the  colours  of  the  scene  were  sombre — the  brown 
of  the  earth,  the  faded  yellow  of  the  dead  stubble,  the 
grey  of  the  myriad  of  undulating  backs.  Only  on  the  far 
side  of  the  herd,  erect,  motionless — a  single  note  of 
black,  a  speck,  a  dot — the  shepherd  stood,  leaning  upon 
an  empty  water-trough,  solitary,  grave,  impressive. 

For  a  few  moments,  Presley  stood,  watching.  Then, 
as  he  started  to  move  on,  a  curious  thing  occurred.  At 
first,  he  thought  he  had  heard  some  one  call  his  name. 
He  paused,  listening;  there  was  no  sound  but  the  vague 
noise  of  the  moving  sheep.  Then,  as  this  first  impression 
passed,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  been  beckoned  to. 
Yet  nothing  stirred ;  except  for  the  lonely  figure  beyond 
the  herd  there  was  no  one  in  sight.  He  started  on  again, 
and  in  half  a  dozen  steps  found  himself  looking  over  his 
shoulder.  Without  knowing  why,  he  looked  toward  the 
shepherd;  then  halted  and  looked  a  second  time  and  a 
third.  Had  the  shepherd  called  to  him?  Presley  knew 
that  he  had  heard  no  voice.  Brusquely,  all  his  attention 
seemed  riveted  upon  this  distant  figure.  He  put  one 
forearm  over  his  eyes,  to  keep  off  the  sun,  gazing  across 
the  intervening  herd.  Surely,  the  shepherd  had  called 
him.  But  at  the  next  instant  he  started,  uttering  an  ex- 


32  The  Octopus 

clamation  under  his  breath.  The  far-away  speck  of 
black  became  animated.  Presley  remarked  a  sweeping 
gesture.  Though  the  man  had  not  beckoned  to  him  be- 
fore, there  was  no  doubt  that  he  was  beckoning  now. 
Without  any  hesitation,  and  singularly  interested  in  the 
incident,  Presley  turned  sharply  aside  and  hurried  on 
toward  the  shepherd,  skirting  the  herd,  wondering  all 
the  time  that  he  should  answer  the  call  with  so  little 
question,  so  little  hesitation. 

But  the  shepherd  came  forward  to  meet  Presley,  fol- 
lowed by  one  of  his  dogs.  As  the  two  men  approached 
each  other,  Presley,  closely  studying  the  other,  began  to 
wonder  where  he  had  seen  him  before.  It  must  have 
been  a  very  long  time  ago,  upon  one  of  his  previous  visits 
to  the  ranch.  Certainly,  however,  there  was  something 
familiar  in  the  shepherd's  face  and  figure.  When  they 
-came  closer  to  each  other,  and  Presley  could  see  him 
more  distinctly,  this  sense  of  a  previous  acquaintance 
"was  increased  and  sharpened. 

The  shepherd  was  a  man  of  about  thirty-five.  He  was 
very  lean  and  spare.  His  brown  canvas  overalls  were 
thrust  into  laced  boots.  A  cartridge  belt  without  any 
•cartridges  encircled  his  waist.  A  grey  flannel  shirt,  open 
at  the  throat,  showed  his  breast,  tanned  and  ruddy.  He 
wore  no  hat.  His  hair  was  very  black  and  rather  long. 
A  pointed  beard  covered  his  chin,  growing  straight  and 
fine  from  the  hollow  cheeks.  The  absence  of  any  cover- 
ing for  his  head  was,  no  doubt,  habitual  with  him,  for  his 
•face  was  as  brown  as  an  Indian's — a  ruddy  brown — quite 
different  from  Presley's  dark  olive.  To  Presley's  mor- 
bidly keen  observation,  the  general  impression  of  the 
shepherd's  face  was  intensely  interesting.  It  was  un- 
common to  an  astonishing  degree.  Presley's  vivid  imag- 
ination chose  to  see  in  it  the  face  of  an  ascetic,  of  a 
recluse,  almost  that  of  a  young  seer.  So  must  have 


A  Story  of  California  3£ 

appeared  the  half-inspired  shepherds  of  the  Hebraic 
legends,  the  younger  prophets  of  Israel,  dwellers  in  the 
wilderness,  beholders  of  visions,  having  their  existence 
in  a  continual  dream,  talkers  with  God,  gifted  with 
strange  powers. 

Suddenly,  at  some  twenty  paces  distant  from  the  ap- 
proaching shepherd,  Presley  stopped  short,  his  eyes 
riveted  upon  the  other. 

"  Vanamee  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

The  shepherd  smiled  and  came  forward,  holding  out 
his  hands,  saying,  "  I  thought  it  was  you.  When  I  saw 
you  come  over  the  hill,  I  called  you." 

"  But  not  with  your  voice,"  returned  Presley.  "  I 
knew  that  some  one  wanted  me.  I  felt  it.  I  should 
have  remembered  that  you  could  do  that  kind  of 
thing." 

"  I  have  never  known  it  to  fail.  It  helps  with  the 
sheep." 

"With  the  sheep?" 

"  In  a  way.  I  can't  tell  exactly  how.  We  don't  under- 
stand these  things  yet.  There  are  times  when,  if  I  close 
my  eyes  and  dig  my  fists  into  my  temples,  I  can  hold  the 
entire  herd  for  perhaps  a  minute.  Perhaps,  though,  it's 
imagination,  who  knows?  But  it's  good  to  see  yoit 
again.  How  long  has  it  been  since  the  last  time  ?  Two, 
three,  nearly  five  years." 

It  was  more  than  that.  It  was  six  years  since  Presley 
and  Vanamee  had  met,  and  then  it  had  been  for  a  short 
time  only,  during  one  of  the  shepherd's  periodical  brief 
returns  to  that  part  of  the  country.  During  a  week  he 
and  Presley  had  been  much  together,  for  the  two  were 
devoted  friends.  Then,  as  abruptly,  as  mysteriously  as 
he  had  come,  Vanamee  disappeared.  Presley  awoke  one 
morning  to  find  him  gone.  Thus,  it  had  been  with  Van- 
amee for  a  period  of  sixteen  years,  He  lived  his  life  ir* 
3 


34  The  Octopus 

the  unknown,  one  could  not  tell  where — in  the  desert,  in 
the  mountains,  throughout  all  the  vast  and  vague  South- 
west, solitary,  strange.  Three,  four,  five  years  passed. 
The  shepherd  would  be  almost  forgotten.  Never  the 
most  trivial  scrap  of  information  as  to  his  whereabouts 
reached  Los  Muertos.  He  had  melted  off  into  the 
surface-shimmer  of  the  desert,  into  the  mirage ;  he  sank 
below  the  horizons ;  he  was  swallowed  up  in  the  waste  of 
sand  and  sage.  Then,  without  warning,  he  would  reap- 
pear, coming  in  from  the  wilderness,  emerging  from  the 
unknown.  No  one  knew  him  well.  In  all  that  country- 
side he  had  but  three  friends,  Presley,  Magnus  Derrick, 
and  the  priest  at  the  Mission  of  San  Juan  de  Guadala- 
jara, Father  Sarria.  He  remained  always  a  mystery, 
living  a  life  half-real,  half-legendary.  In  all  those  years 
he  did  not  seem  to  have  grown  older  by  a  single  day. 
At  this  time,  Presley  knew  him  to  be  thirty-six  years  of 
age.  But  since  the  first  day  the  two  had  met,  the  shep- 
herd's face  and  bearing  had,  to  his  eyes,  remained  the 
same.  At  this  moment,  Presley  was  looking  into  the 
same  face  he  had  first  seen  many,  many  years  ago.  It 
was  a  face  stamped  with  an  unspeakable  sadness, a  death- 
less grief,  the  permanent  imprint  of  a  tragedy  long  past, 
but  yet  a  living  issue.  Presley  told  himself  that  it  was 
impossible  to  look  long  into  Vanamee's  eyes  without 
knowing  that  here  was  a  man  whose  whole  being  had 
been  at  one  time  shattered  and  riven  to  its  lowest  depths, 
whose  life  had  suddenly  stopped  at  a  certain  moment  of 
its  development. 

The  two  friends  sat  down  upon  the  ledge  of  the  water- 
ing-trough, their  eyes  wandering  incessantly  toward  the 
slow  moving  herd,  grazing  on  the  wheat  stubble,  moving 
southward  as  they  grazed. 

"  Where  have  you  come  from  this  time?  "  Presley  had 
asked.  "  Where  have  you  kept  yourself?  " 


A  Story  of  California  35 

The  other  swept  the  horizon  to  the  south  and  east 
with  a  vague  gesture. 

"  Off  there,  down  to  the  south,  very  far  off.  So  many 
places  that  I  can't  remember.  I  went  the  Long  Trail 
this  time;  a  long,  long  ways.  Arizona,  The  Mexico's, 
and,  then,  afterwards,  Utah  and  Nevada,  following  the 
horizon,  travelling  at  hazard.  Into  Arizona  first,  going 
in  by  Monument  Pass,  and  then  on  to  the  south,  through 
the  country  of  the  Navajos,  down  by  the  Aga  Thia 
Needle — a  great  blade  of  red  rock  jutting  from  out  the 
desert,  like  a  knife  thrust.  Then  on  and  on  through  The 
Mexicos,  all  through  the  Southwest,  then  back  again 
in  a  great  circle  by  Chihuahua  and  Aldama  to  Laredo, 
to  Torreon,  and  Albuquerque.  From  there  across  the 
Uncompahgre  plateau  into  the  Uintah  country;  then  at 
last  due  west  through  Nevada  to  California  and  to  the 
valley  of  the  San  Joaquin." 

His  voice  lapsed  to  a  monotone,  his  eyes  becoming 
fixed;  he  continued  to  speak  as  though  half  awake, 
his  thoughts  elsewhere,  seeing  again  in  the  eye  of  his 
mind  the  reach  of  desert  and  red  hill,  the  purple  moun- 
tain, the  level  stretch  of  alkali,  leper  white,  all  the  savage, 
gorgeous  desolation  of  the  Long  Trail. 

He  ignored  Presley  for  the  moment,  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  Presley  himself  gave  him  but  half  his  attention. 
The  return  of  Vanamee  had  stimulated  the  poet's  mem- 
ory. He  recalled  the  incidents  of  Vanamee's  life,  re- 
viewing again  that  terrible  drama  which  had  uprooted 
his  soul,  which  had  driven  him  forth  a  wanderer,  a  shun- 
ner  of  men,  a  sojourner  in  waste  places.  He  was, 
strangely  enough,  a  college  graduate  and  a  man  of  wide 
reading  and  great  intelligence,  but  he  had  chosen  to 
lead  his  own  life,  which  was  that  of  a  recluse. 

Of  a  temperament  similar  in  many  ways  to  Presley's, 
there  were  capabilities  in  Vanamee  that  were  not  ordi- 


3  6  The  Octopus 

narily  to  be  found  in  the  rank  and  file  of  men.  Living 
close  to  nature,  a  poet  by  instinct,  where  Presley  was 
but  a  poet  by  training,  there  developed  in  him  a  great 
•sensitiveness  to  beauty  and  an  almost  abnormal  capacity 
for  great  happiness  and  great  sorrow;  he  felt  things 
intensely,  deeply.  He  never  forgot.  It  was  when  he 
was  eighteen  or  nineteen,  at  the  formative  and  most 
impressionable  period  of  his  life,  that  he  had  met  An- 
gele Varian.  Presley  barely  remembered  her  as  a  girl 
of  sixteen,  beautiful  almost  beyond  expression,  who  lived 
with  an  aged  aunt  on  the  Seed  ranch  back  of  the  Mission. 
At  this  moment  he  was  trying  to  recall  how  she  looked, 
with  her  hair  of  gold  hanging  in  two  straight  plaits  on 
either  side  of  her  face,  making  three-cornered  her  round, 
white  forehead;  her  wonderful  eyes,  violet  blue,  heavy 
lidded,  with  their  astonishing  upward  slant  toward  the 
temples,  the  slant  that  gave  a  strange,  oriental  cast  to 
her  face,  perplexing,  enchanting.  He  remembered  the 
Egyptian  fulness  of  the  lips,  the  strange  balancing 
movement  of  her  head  upon  her  slender  neck,  the  same 
movement  that  one  sees  in  a  snake  at  poise.  Never 
had  he  seen  a  girl  more  radiantly  beautiful,  never  a 
beauty  so  strange,  so  troublous,  so  out  of  all  accepted 
standards.  It  was  small  wonder  that  Vanamee  had  loved 
her,  and  less  wonder,  still,  that  his  love  had  been  so  in- 
tense, so  passionate,  so  part  of  himself.  Angele  had 
loved  him  with  a  love  no  less  than  his  own.  It  was  one 
of  those  legendary  passions  that  sometimes  occur,  idyl- 
lic, untouched  by  civilisation,  spontaneous  as  the  growth 
of  trees,  natural  as  dew-fall,  strong  as  the  firm-seated 
mountains. 

At  the  time  of  his  meeting  with  Angele,  Vanamee  was 
living  on  the  Los  Muertos  ranch.  It  was  there  he  had 
chosen  to  spend  one  of  his  college  vacations.  But  he  pre- 
ierred  to  pass  it  in  out-of-door  work,  sometimes  herding 


A  Story  of  California  37 

cattle,  sometimes  pitching  hay,  sometimes  working  with 
pick  and  dynamite-stick  on  the  ditches  in  the  fourth  divi- 
sion of  the  ranch,  riding  the  range,  mending  breaks  in 
the  wire  fences,  making  himself  generally  useful.  Col- 
lege bred  though  he  was,  the  life  pleased  him.  He  was, 
as  he  desired,  close  to  nature,  living  the  full  measure 
of  life,  a  worker  among  workers,  taking  enjoyment  in 
simple  pleasures,  healthy  in  mind  and  body.  He  be- 
lieved in  an  existence  passed  in  this  fashion  in  the  coun- 
try, working  hard,  eating  full,  drinking  deep,  sleeping 
dreamlessly. 

But  every  night,  after  supper,  he  saddled  his  pony  and. 
rode  over  to  the  garden  of  the  old  Mission.  The  'dobe 
dividing  wall  on  that  side,  which  once  had  separated  the 
Mission  garden  and  the  Seed  ranch,  had  long  since 
crumbled  away,  and  the  boundary  between  the  two  pieces 
of  ground  was  marked  only  by  a  line  of  venerable  pear 
trees.  Here,  under  these  trees,  he  found  Angele  await- 
ing him,  and  there  the  two  would  sit  through  the  hot,, 
still  evening,  their  arms  about  each  other,  watching  the 
moon  rise  over  the  foothills,  listening  to  the  trickle  of 
the  water  in  the  moss-encrusted  fountain  in  the  garden, 
and  the  steady  croak  of  the  great  frogs  that  lived  in  the 
damp  north  corner  of  the  enclosure.  Through  all  one 
summer  the  enchantment  of  that  new-found,  wonderful 
love,  pure  and  untainted,  rilled  the  lives  of  each  of  them 
with  its  sweetness.  The  summer  passed,  the  harvest 
moon  came  and  went.  The  nights  were  very  dark.  In 
the  deep  shade  of  the  pear  trees  they  could  no  longer 
see  each  other.  When  they  met  at  the  rendezvous, 
Vanamee  found  her  only  with  his  groping  hands.  They 
did  not  speak,  mere  words  were  useless  between  them. 
Silently  as  his  reaching  hands  touched  her  warm 
body,  he  took  her  in  his  arms,  searching  for  her  lips 
with  his.  Then  one  night  the  tragedy  had  suddenly 


38  The  Octopus 

leaped  from  out  the  shadow  with  the  abruptness  of  an 
explosion. 

It  was  impossible  afterwards  to  reconstruct  the  man- 
ner of  its  occurrence.  To  Angele's  mind — what  there 
was  left  of  it — the  matter  always  remained  a  hideous 
blur,  a  blot,  a  vague,  terrible  confusion.  No  doubt  they 
two  had  been  watched;  the  plan  succeeded  too  well  for 
any  other  supposition.  One  moonless  night,  Angele, 
arriving  under  the  black  shadow  of  the  pear  trees  a  little 
earlier  than  usual,  found  the  apparently  familiar  figure 
waiting  for  her.  All  unsuspecting  she  gave  herself  to 
the  embrace  of  a  strange  pair  of  arms,  and  Vanamee  ar- 
riving but  a  score  of  moments  later,  stumbled  over  her 
prostrate  body,  inert  and  unconscious,  in  the  shadow  of 
the  overspiring  trees. 

Who  was  the  Other?  Angele  was  carried  to  her  home 
on  the  Seed  ranch,  delirious,  all  but  raving,  and  Vana- 
mee, with  knife  and  revolver  ready,  ranged  the  country- 
side like  a  wolf.  He  was  not  alone.  The  whole  county 
rose,  raging,  horror-struck.  Posse  after  posse  was 
formed,  sent  out,  and  returned,  without  so  much  as  a 
clue.  Upon  no  one  could  even  the  shadow  of  suspicion 
be  thrown.  The  Other  had  withdrawn  into  an  impene- 
trable mystery.  There  he  remained.  He  never  was 
found;  he  never  was  so  much  as  heard  of.  A  legend 
arose  about  him,  this  prowler  of  the  night,  this  strange, 
fearful  figure,  with  an  unseen  face,  swooping  in  there 
from  out  the  darkness,  come  and  gone  in  an  instant,  but 
leaving  behind  him  a  track  of  terror  and  death  and  rage 
and  undying  grief.  Within  the  year,  in  giving  birth  to 
the  child,  Angele  had  died. 

The  little  babe  was  taken  by  Angele's  parents,  and 
Angele  was  buried  in  the  Mission  garden  near  to  the 
aged,  grey  sun  dial.  Vanamee  stood  by  during  the  cere- 
mony, but  half  conscious  of  what  was  going  forward. 


A  Story  of  California  39 

At  the  last  moment  he  had  stepped  forward,  looked  long 
into  the  dead  face  framed  in  its  plaits  of  gold  hair,  the 
hair  that  made  three-cornered  the  round,  white  fore- 
head ;  looked  again  at  the  closed  eyes,  with  their  perplex- 
ing upward  slant  toward  the  temples,  oriental,  bizarre ; 
at  the  lips  with  their  Egyptian  fulness ;  at  the  sweet, 
slender  neck ;  the  long,  slim  hands  ;  then  abruptly  turned 
about.  The  last  clods  were  rilling  the  grave  at  a  time 
when  he  was  already  far  away,  his  horse's  head  turned 
toward  the  desert. 

For  two  years  no  syllable  was  heard  of  him.  It  was 
believed  that  he  had  killed  himself.  But  Vanamee  had 
no  thought  of  that.  For  two  years  he  wandered  through 
Arizona,  living  in  the  desert,  in  the  wilderness,  a  recluse, 
a  nomad,  an  ascetic.  But,  doubtless,  all  his  heart  was 
in  the  little  coffin  in  the  Mission  garden.  Once  in  so 
often  he  must  come  back  thither.  One  day  he  was  seen 
again  in  the  San  Joaquin.  The  priest,  Father  Sarria, 
returning  from  a  visit  to  the  sick  at  Bonneville,  met  him 
on  the  Upper  Road. 

Eighteen  years  had  passed  since  Angele  had  died,  but 
the  thread  of  Vanamee's  life  had  been  snapped.  Noth- 
ing remained  now  but  the  tangled  ends.  He  had  never 
forgotten.  The  long,  dull  ache,  the  poignant  grief  had 
now  become  a  part  of  him.  Presley  knew  this  to  be  so. 

While  Presley  had  been  reflecting  upon  all  this,  Vana- 
mee had  continued  to  speak.  Presley,  however,  had 
not  been  wholly  inattentive.  While  his  memory  was 
busy  reconstructing  the  details  of  the  drama  of  the 
shepherd's  life,  another  part  of  his  brain  had  been  swiftly 
registering  picture  after  picture  that  Vanamee's  monoto- 
nous flow  of  words  struck  off,  as  it  were,  upon  a  stead- 
ily moving  scroll.  The  music  of  the  unfamiliar  names 
that  occurred  in  his  recital  was  a  stimulant  to  the  poet's 
imagination.  Presley  had  the  poet's  passion  for  expres- 


40  The  Octopus 

sive,  sonorous  names.  As  these  came  and  went  in 
Vanamee's  monotonous  undertones,  like  little  notes  of 
harmony  in  a  musical  progression,  he  listened,  delighted 
with  their  resonance.  Navajo,  Quijotoa,  Uintah,  So- 
nora,  Laredo,  Uncompahgre — to  him  they  were  so  many 
symbols.  It  was  his  West  that  passed,  unrolling  there 
before  the  eye  of  his  mind:  the  open,  heat-scourged 
round  of  desert ;  the  mesa,  like  a  vast  altar,  shimmering 
purple  in  the  royal  sunset ;  the  still,  gigantic  mountains, 
heaving  into  the  sky  from  out  the  canons ;  the  strenuous, 
fierce  life  of  isolated  towns,  lost  and  forgotten,  down 
there,  far  off,  below  the  horizon.  Abruptly  his  great 
poem,  his  Song  of  the  West,  leaped  up  again  in  his 
imagination.  For  the  moment,  he  all  but  held  it.  It 
was  there,  close  at  hand.  In  another  instant  he  would 
grasp  it. 

"  Yes,  yes/'  he  exclaimed,  "  I  can  see  it  all.  The  des- 
ert, the  mountains,  all  wild,  primordial,  untamed.  How 
I  should  have  loved  to  have  been  with  you.  Then,  per- 
haps, I  should  have  got  hold  of  my  idea." 

"Your  idea?" 

"  The  great  poem  of  the  West.  It's  that  which  I  want 
to  write.  Oh,  to  put  it  all  into  hexameters;  strike  the 
great  iron  note;  sing  the  vast,  terrible  song;  the  song  of 
the  People;  the  forerunners  of  empire!  " 

Vanamee  understood  him  perfectly.  He  nodded 
gravely. 

"  Yes,  it  is  there.  It  is  Life,  the  primitive,  simple, 
direct  Life,  passionate,  tumultuous.  Yes,  there  is  an 
epic  there." 

Presley  caught  at  the  word.  It  had  never  before  oc- 
curred to  him. 

"  Epic,  yes,  that's  it.  It  is  the  epic  I'm  searching  for. 
And  how  I  search  for  it.  You  don't  know.  It  is  some- 
times almost  an  agony.  Often  and  often  I  can  feel  it 


A  Story  of  California  41 

right  there,  there,  at  my  finger-tips,  but  I  never  quite 
catch  it.  It  always  eludes  me.  I  was  born  too  late. 
Ah,  to  get  back  to  that  first  clear-eyed  view  of  things,  to 
see  as  Homer  saw,  as  Beowulf  saw,  as  the  Nibelungen 
poets  saw.  The  life  is  here,  the  same  as  then;  the  Poem 
is  here;  my  West  is  here;  the  primeval,  epic  life  is  here, 
here  under  our  hands,  in  the  desert,  in  the  mountain,  on 
the  ranch,  all  over  here,  from  Winnipeg  to  Guadalupe. 
It  is  the  man  who  is  lacking,  the  poet;  we  have  been 
educated  away  from  it  all.  We  are  out  of  touch.  We 
are  out  of  tune." 

Vanamee  heard  him  to  the  end,  his  grave,  sad  face 
thoughtful  and  attentive.  Then  he  rose. 

"  I  am  going  over  to  the  Mission,"  he  said,  "  to  see 
Father  Sarria.  I  have  not  seen  him  yet." 

"  How  about  the  sheep?  " 

"  The  dogs  will  keep  them  in  hand,  and  I  shall  not  be 
gone  long.  Besides  that,  I  have  a  boy  here  to  help.  He 
is  over  yonder  on  the  other  side  of  the  herd.  We  can't 
see  him  from  here." 

Presley  wondered  at  the  heedlessness  of  leaving  the 
sheep  so  slightly  guarded,  but  made  no  comment,  and 
the  two  started  off  across  the  field  in  the  direction  of  the 
Mission  church. 

"  Well,  yes,  it  is  there — your  epic,"  observed  Vana- 
mee, as  they  went  along.  "  But  why  write?  Why  not 
live  in  it?  Steep  oneself  in  the  heat  of  the  desert,  the 
glory  of  the  sunset,  the  blue  haze  of  the  mesa  and  the 
canon." 

"  As  you  have  done,  for  instance?  " 

Vanamee  nodded. 

"  No,  I  could  not  do  that,"  declared  Presley;  "  I  want 
to  go  back,  but  not  so  far  as  you.  I  feel  that  I  must 
compromise.  I  must  find  expression.  I  could  not  lose 
myself  like  that  in  your  desert.  When  its  vastness  over- 


42  The  Octopus 

whelmed  me,  or  its  beauty  dazzled  me,  or  its  loneliness 
weighed  down  upon  me,  I  should  have  to  record  my 
impressions.  Otherwise,  I  should  suffocate." 

"  Each  to  his  own  life,"  observed  Yanamee. 

The  Mission  of  San  Juan,  built  of  brown  'dobe  blocks, 
covered  with  yellow  plaster,  that  at  many  points  had 
dropped  away  from  the  walls,  stood  on  the  crest  of  a 
low  rise  of  the  ground,  facing  to  the  south.  A  covered 
colonnade,  paved  with  round,  worn  bricks,  from  whence 
opened  the  doors  of  the  abandoned  cells,  once  used  by 
the  monks,  adjoined  it  on  the  left.  The  roof  was  of  tiled 
half-cylinders,  split  longitudinally,  and  laid  in  alternate 
rows,  now  concave,  now  convex.  The  main  body  of  the 
church  itself  was  at  right  angles  to  the  colonnade,  and 
at  the  point  of  intersection  rose  the  belfry  tower,  an 
ancient  campanile,  where  swung  the  three  cracked 
bells,  the  gift  of  the  King  of  Spain.  Beyond  the  church 
was  the  Mission  garden  and  the  graveyard  that  over- 
looked the  Seed  ranch  in  a  little  hollow  beyond. 

Presley  and  Vanamee  went  down  the  long  colonnade 
to  the  last  door  next  the  belfry  tower,  and  Vanamee 
pulled  the  leather  thong  that  hung  from  a  hole  in  the 
door,  setting  a  little  bell  jangling  somewhere  in  the  in- 
terior. The  place,  but  for  this  noise,  was  shrouded  in 
a  Sunday  stillness,  an  absolute  repose.  Only  at  inter- 
vals, one  heard  the  trickle  of  the  unseen  fountain,  and  the 
liquid  cooing  of  doves  in  the  garden. 

Father  Sarria  opened  the  door.  He  was  a  small  man, 
somewhat  stout,  with  a  smooth  and  shiny  face.  He  wore 
a  frock  coat  that  was  rather  dirty,  slippers,  and  an  old 
yachting  cap  of  blue  cloth,  with  a  broken  leather  vizor. 
He  was  smoking  a  cheap  cigar,  very  fat  and  black. 

But  instantly  he  recognised  Vanamee.  His  face  went 
all  alight  with  pleasure  and  astonishment.  It  seemed  as 
if  he  would  never  have  finished  shaking  both  his  hands; 


A  Story  of  California  43 

and,  as  it  was,  he  released  but  one  of  them,  patting  him 
affectionately  on  the  shoulder  with  the  other.  He  was 
voluble  in  his  welcome,  talking  partly  in  Spanish,  partly 
in  English. 

So  he  had  come  back  again,  this  great  fellow,  tanned 
as  an  Indian,  lean  as  an  Indian,  with  an  Indian's  long, 
black  hair.  But  he  had  not  changed,  not  in  the  very 
least.  His  beard  had  not  grown  an  inch.  Aha!  The 
rascal,  never  to  give  warning,  to  drop  down,  as  it  werey 
from  out  the  sky.  Such  a  hermit !  To  live  in  the  desert! 
A  veritable  Saint  Jerome.  Did  a  lion  feed  him  down 
there  in  Arizona,  or  was  it  a  raven,  like  Elijah?  The 
good  God  had  not  fattened  him,  at  any  rate,  and,  apro- 
pos, he  was  just  about  to  dine  himself.  He  had  made 
a  salad  from  his  own  lettuce.  The  two  would  dine  with 
him,  eh?  For  this,  my  son,  that  was  lost  is  found  again. 

But  Presley  excused  himself.  Instinctively,  he  felt 
that  Sarria  and  Vanamee  wanted  to  talk  of  things  con- 
cerning which  he  was  an  outsider.  It  was  not  at  all  un- 
likely that  Vanamee  would  spend  half  the  night  before 
the  high  altar  in  the  church. 

He  took  himself  away,  his  mind  still  busy  with  Van- 
amee's  extraordinary  life  and  character.  But,  as  he 
descended  the  hill,  he  was  startled  by  a  prolonged  and 
raucous  cry,  discordant,  very  harsh,  thrice  repeated  at 
exact  intervals,  and,  looking  up,  he  saw  one  of  Father 
Sarria's  peacocks  balancing  himself  upon  the  topmost 
wire  of  the  fence,  his  long  tail  trailing,  his  neck  out- 
stretched, filling  the  air  with  his  stupid  outcry,  for  no 
reason  than  the  desire  to  make  a  noise. 

About  an  hour  later,  toward  four  in  the  afternoon, 
Presley  reached  the  spring  at  the  head  of  the  little  canon 
in  the  northeast  corner  of  the  Quien  Sabe  ranch,  the 
point  toward  which  he  had  been  travelling  since  early  in 
the  forenoon.  The  place  was  not  without  its  charm. 


44  The  Octopus 

Innumerable  live-oaks  overhung  the  canon,  and  Broder- 
son  Creek — there  a  mere  rivulet,  running  down  from 
the  spring — gave  a  certain  coolness  to  the  air.  It  was 
one  of  the  few  spots  thereabouts  that  had  survived  the 
•dry  season  of  the  last  year.  Nearly  all  the  other  springs 
had  dried  completely,  while  Mission  Creek  on  Derrick's 
ranch  was  nothing  better  than  a  dusty  cutting  in  the 
ground,  filled  with  brittle,  concave  flakes  of  dried  and 
sun-cracked  mud. 

Presley  climbed  to  the  summit  of  one  of  the  hills — the 
highest — that  rose  out  of  the  canon,  from  the  crest  of 
which  he  could  see  for  thirty,  fifty,  sixty  miles  down  the 
valley,  and,  filling  his  pipe,  smoked  lazily  for  upwards  of 
an  hour,  his  head  empty  of  thought,  allowing  himself  to 
succumb  to  a  pleasant,  gentle  inanition,  a  little  drowsy, 
comfortable  in  his  place,  prone  upon  the  ground,  wanned 
just  enough  by  such  sunlight  as  filtered  through  the  live- 
oaks,  soothed  by  the  good  tobacco  and  the  prolonged 
murmur  of  the  spring  and  creek.  By  degrees,  the  sense 
of  his  own  personality  became  blunted,  the  little  wheels 
and  cogs  of  thought  moved  slower  and  slower;  con- 
sciousness dwindled  to  a  point,  the  animal  in  him 
stretched  itself,  purring.  A  delightful  numbness  in- 
vaded his  mind  and  his  body.  He  was  not  asleep,  he  was 
not  awake,  stupefied  merely,  lapsing  back  to  the  state 
of  the  faun,  the  satyr. 

After  a  while,  rousing  himself  a  little,  he  shifted  his 
position  and,  drawing  from  the  pocket  of  his  shooting 
coat  his  little  tree-calf  edition  of  the  Odyssey,  read  far 
into  the  twenty-first  book,  where,  after  the  failure  of  all 
the  suitors  to  bend  Ulysses's  bow,  it  is  finally  put,  with 
mockery,  into  his  own  hands.  Abruptly  the  drama  of 
the  story  roused  him  from  all  his  languor.  In  an  instant, 
he  was  the  poet  again,  his  nerves  tingling,  alive  to  every 
sensation,  responsive  to  every  impression.  The  desire 


A  Story  of  California  45 

of  creation,  of  composition,  grew  big  within  him.  Hexa- 
meters of  his  own  clamoured,  tumultuous,  in  his  brain. 
Not  for  a  long  time  had  he  "  felt  his  poem,"  as  he  called 
this  sensation,  so  poignantly.  For  an  instant  he  told 
himself  that  he  actually  held  it. 

It  was,  no  doubt,  Vanamee's  talk  that  had  stimulated 
him  to  this  point.  The  story  of  the  Long  Trail,  with  its 
desert  and  mountain,  its  cliff-dwellers,  its  Aztec  ruins,  its 
colour,  movement,  and  romance,- filled  his  mind  with 
picture  after  picture.  The  epic  defiled  before  his  vision 
like  a  pageant.  Once  more,  he  shot  a  glance  about  him, 
as  if  in  search  of  the  inspiration,  and  this  time  he  all  but 
found  it.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  looking  out  and  off  below 
him. 

As  from  a  pinnacle,  Presley,  from  where  he  now  stood, 
dominated  the  entire  country.  The  sun  had  begun  to 
set,  everything  in  the  range  of  his  vision  was  overlaid 
with  a  sheen  of  gold. 

First,  close  at  hand,  it  was  the  Seed  ranch,  carpeting 
the  little  hollow  behind  the  Mission  with  a  spread  of 
greens,  some  dark,  some  vivid,  some  pale  almost  to  yel- 
lowness. Beyond  that  was  the  Mission  itself,  its  vener- 
able campanile,  in  whose  arches  hung  the  Spanish  King's 
bells,  already  glowing  ruddy  in  the  sunset.  Farther  on, 
he  could  make  out  Annixter's  ranch  house,  marked  by 
the  skeleton-like  tower  of  the  artesian  well,  and,  a  little 
farther  to  the  east,  the  huddled,  tiled  roofs  of  Guadala- 
jara. Far  to  the  west  and  north,  he  saw  Bonneville  very 
plain,  and  the  dome  of  the  courthouse,  a  purple  silhou- 
ette against  the  glare  of  the  sky.  Other  points  detached 
themselves,  swimming  in  a  golden  mist,  projecting  blue 
shadows  far  before  them;  the  mammoth  live-oak  by 
Hooven's,  towering  superb  and  magnificent ;  the  line  of 
eucalyptus  trees,  behind  which  he  knew  was  the  Los 
Muertos  ranch  house — his  home;  the  watering-tank,  the 


46  The  Octopus 

great  iron-hooped  tower  of  wood  that  stood  at  the  join- 
ing of  the  Lower  Road  and  the  County  Road ;  the  long 
wind-break  of  poplar  trees  and  the  white  walls  of  Cara- 
her's  saloon  on  the  County  Road. 

But  all  this  seemed  to  be  only  foreground,  a  mere 
array  of  accessories — a  mass  of  irrelevant  details.  Be- 
yond Annixter's,  beyond  Guadalajara,  beyond  the  Lower 
Road,  beyond  Broderson  Creek,  on  to  the  south  and 
west,  infinite,  illimitable,  stretching  out  there  under  the 
sheen  of  the  sunset  forever  and  forever,  flat,  vast,  un- 
broken, a  huge  scroll,  unrolling  between  the  horizons, 
spread  the  great  stretches  of  the  ranch  of  Los  Muer- 
tos,  bare  of  crops,  shaved  close  in  the  recent  harvest. 
Near  at  hand  were  hills,  but  on  that  far  southern  horizon 
only  the  curve  of  the  great  earth  itself  checked  the  view. 
Adjoining  Los  Muertos,  and  widening  to  the  west, 
opened  the  Broderson  ranch.  The  Osterman  ranch  to 
the  northwest  carried  on  the  great  sweep  of  landscape ; 
ranch  after  ranch.  Then,  as  the  imagination  itself  ex- 
panded under  the  stimulus  of  that  measureless  range  of 
vision,  even  those  great  ranches  resolved  themselves 
into  mere  foreground,  mere  accessories,  irrelevant  de- 
tails. Beyond  the  fine  line  of  the  horizons,  over  the 
curve  of  the  globe,  the  shoulder  of  the  earth,  were  other 
ranches,  equally  vast,  and  beyond  these,  others,  and  be- 
yond these,  still  others,  the  immensities  multiplying, 
lengthening  out  vaster  and  vaster.  The  whole  gigantic 
sweep  of  the  San  Joaquin  expanded,  Titanic,  before  the 
eye  of  the  mind,  flagellated  with  heat,  quivering  and 
shimmering  under  the  sun's  red  eye.  At  long  intervals, 
a  faint  breath  of  wind  out  of  the  south  passed  slowly 
over  the  levels  of  the  baked  and  empty  earth,  accentuat- 
ing the  silence,  marking  off  the  stillness.  It  seemed  to 
exhale  from  the  land  itself,  a  prolonged  sigh  as  of  deep 
fatigue.  It  was  the  season  after  the  harvest,  and  the 


A  Story  of  California  47 

great  earth,  the  mother,  after  its  period  of  reproduction, 
its  pains  of  labour,  delivered  of  the  fruit  of  its  loins,  slept 
the  sleep  of  exhaustion,  the  infinite  repose  of  the  colos- 
sus, benignant,  eternal,  strong,  the  nourisher  of  nations, 
the  feeder  of  an  entire  world. 

Ha!  there  it  was,  his  epic,  his  inspiration,  his  West, 
his  thundering  progression  of  hexameters.  A  sudden 
uplift,  a  sense  of  exhilaration,  of  physical  exaltation  ap- 
peared abruptly  to  sweep  Presley  from  his  feet.  As 
from  a  point  high  above  the  world,  he  seemed  to  domi- 
nate a  universe,  a  whole  order  of  things.  He  was  diz- 
zied, stunned,  stupefied,  his  morbid  supersensitive  mind 
reeling,  drunk  with  the  intoxication  of  mere  immensity. 
Stupendous  ideas  for  which  there  were  no  names  drove 
headlong  through  his  brain.  Terrible,  formless  shapes, 
vague  figures,  gigantic,  monstrous,  distorted,  whirled  at 
a  gallop  through  his  imagination. 

He  started  homeward,  still  in  his  dream,  descending 
from  the  hill,  emerging  from  the  canon,  and  took  the 
short  cut  straight  across  the  Quien  Sabe  ranch,  leaving 
Guadalajara  far  to  his  left.  He  tramped  steadily  on 
through  the  wheat  stubble,  walking  fast,  his  head  in  a 
whirl. 

Never  had  he  so  nearly  grasped  his  inspiration  as  at 
that  moment  on  the  hill-top.  Even  now,  though  the 
sunset  was  fading,  though  the  wide  reach  of  valley  was 
shut  from  sight,  it  still  kept  him  company.  Now  the 
details  came  thronging  back — the  component  parts  of 
his  poem,  the  signs  and  symbols  of  the  West.  It  was 
there,  close  at  hand,  he  had  been  in  touch  with  it  all  day. 
It  was  in  the  centenarian's  vividly  coloured  reminis- 
cences— De  La  Cuesta,  holding  his  grant  from  the  Span- 
ish crown,  with  his  power  of  life  and  death;  the  romance 
of  his  marriage ;  the  white  horse  with  its  pillion  of  red 
leather  and  silver  bridle  mountings;  the  bull-fights  in  the 


48  The  Octopus 

Plaza;  the  gifts  of  gold  dust,  and  horses  and  tallow.  It 
was  in  Vanamee's  strange  history,  the  tragedy  of  his 
love;  Angele  Varian,  with  her  marvellous  loveliness;  the 
Egyptian  fulness  of  her  lips,  the  perplexing  upward  slant 
of  her  violet  eyes,  bizarre,  oriental;  her  white  forehead 
made  three  cornered  by  her  plaits  of  gold  hair;  the  mys- 
tery of  the  Other;  her  death  at  the  moment  of  her  child's 
birth.  It  was  in  Vanamee's  flight  into  the  wilderness; 
the  story  of  the  Long  Trail;  the  sunsets  behind  the  altar- 
like  mesas,  the  baking  desolation  of  the  deserts;  the 
strenuous,  fierce  life  of  forgotten  towns,  down  there,  far 
off,  lost  below  the  horizons  of  the  southwest;  the  sono- 
rous music  of  unfamiliar  names — Quijotoa,  Uintah,  So- 
nora,  Laredo,  Uncompahgre.  It  was  in  the  Mission,  with 
its  cracked  bells,  its  decaying  walls,  its  venerable  sun  dial, 
its  fountain  and  old  garden,  and  in  the  Mission  Fathers 
themselves,  the  priests,  the  padres,  planting  the  first 
wheat  and  oil  and  wine  to  produce  the  elements  of  the 
Sacrament — a  trinity  of  great  industries,  taking  their 
rise  in  a  religious  rite. 

Abruptly,  as  if  in  confirmation,  Presley  heard  the 
sound  of  a  bell  from  the  direction  of  the  Mission  itself. 
It  was  the  de  Profundis,  a  note  of  the  Old  World ;  of  the 
ancient  regime,  an  echo  from  the  hillsides  of  mediaeval 
Europe,  sounding  there  in  this  new  land,  unfamiliar  and 
strange  at  this  end-of-the-century  time. 

By  now,  however,  it  was  dark.  Presley  hurried  for- 
ward. He  came  to  the  line  fence  of  the  Quien  Sabe 
ranch.  Everything  was  very  still.  The  stars  were  all 
out.  There  was  not  a  sound  other  than  the  de  Profun- 
dis, still  sounding  from  very  far  away.  At  long  intervals 
the  great  earth  sighed  dreamily  in  its  sleep.  All  about, 
the  feeling  of  absolute  peace  and  quiet  and  security  and 
untroubled  happiness  and  content  seemed  descending 
from  the  stars  like  a  benediction.  The  beauty  of  his 


A  Story  of  California  49 

poem,  its  idyl,  came  to  him  like  a  caress;  that  alone 
had  been  lacking.  It  was  that,  perhaps,  which  had  left 
it  hitherto  incomplete.  At  last  he  was  to  grasp  his  song 
in  all  its  entity. 

But  suddenly  there  was  an  interruption.  Presley  had 
climbed  the  fence  at  the  limit  of  the  Quien  Sabe  ranch. 
Beyond  was  Los  Muertos,  but  between  the  two  ran  the 
railroad.  He  had  only  time  to  jump  back  upon  the 
embankment  when,  with  a  quivering  of  all  the  earth,  a 
locomotive,  single,  unattached,  shot  by  him  with  a  roar, 
filling  the  air  with  the  reek  of  hot  oil,  vomiting  smoke 
and  sparks ;  its  enormous  eye,  Cyclopean,  red,  throwing 
a  glare  far  in  advance,  shooting  by  in  a  sudden  crash  of 
confused  thunder;  filling  the  night  with  the  terrific 
clamour  of  its  iron  hoofs. 

Abruptly  Presley  remembered.  This  must  be  the 
crack  passenger  engine  of  which  Dyke  had  told  him,  the 
one  delayed  by  the  accident  on  the  Bakersfield  division 
and  for  whose  passage  the  track  had  been  opened  all  the 
way  to  Fresno. 

Before  Presley  could  recover  from  the  shock  of  the 
irruption,  while  the  earth  was  still  vibrating,  the  rails 
still  humming,  the  engine  was  far  away,  flinging  the  echo 
of  its  frantic  gallop  over  all  the  valley.  For  a  brief  in- 
stant it  roared  with  a  hollow  diapason  on  the  Long 
Trestle  over  Broderson  Creek,  then  plunged  into  a  cut- 
ting farther  on,  the  quivering  glare  of  its  fires  losing  it- 
self in  the  night,  its  thunder  abruptly  diminishing  to  a 
subdued  and  distant  humming.  All  at  once  this  ceased. 
The  engine  was  gone. 

But  the  moment  the  noise  of  the  engine  lapsed,  Pres- 
ley— about  to  start  forward  again — was  conscious  of  a 
confusion  of  lamentable  sounds  that  rose  into  the  night 
from  out  the  engine's  wake.  Prolonged  cries  of  agony, 
sobbing  wails  of  infinite  pain,  heart-rending,  pitiful. 


50  The  Octopus 

The  noises  came  from  a  little  distance.  He  ran  down 
the  track,  crossing  the  culvert,  over  the  irrigating  ditch, 
and  at  the  head  of  the  long  reach  of  track — between  the 
culvert  and  the  Long  Trestle — paused  abruptly,  held  im- 
movable at  the  sight  of  the  ground  and  rails  all  about 
him. 

In  some  way,  the  herd  of  sheep — Vanamee's  herd — 
had  found  a  breach  in  the  wire  fence  by  the  right  of  way 
and  had  wandered  out  upon  the  tracks.  A  band  had  been 
crossing  just  at  the  moment  of  the  engine's  passage. 
The  pathos  of  it  was  beyond  expression.  It  was  a 
slaughter,  a  massacre  of  innocents.  The  iron  monster 
had  charged  full  into  the  midst,  merciless,  inexorable. 
To  the  right  and  left,  all  the  width  of  the  right  of  way, 
the  little  bodies  had  been  flung;  backs  were  snapped 
against  the  fence  posts ;  brains  knocked  out.  Caught  in 
the  barbs  of  the  wire,  wedged  in,  the  bodies  hung  sus- 
pended. Under  foot  it  was  terrible.  The  black  blood, 
winking  in  the  starlight,  seeped  down  into  the  clinkers 
between  the  ties  with  a  prolonged  sucking  murmur. 

Presley  turned  away,  horror-struck,  sick  at  heart, 
overwhelmed  with  a  quick  burst  of  irresistible  compas- 
sion for  this  brute  agony  he  could  not  relieve.  The 
sweetness  was  gone  from  the  evening,  the  sense  of  peace, 
of  security,  and  placid  contentment  was  stricken  from 
the  landscape.  The  hideous  ruin  in  the  engine's  path 
drove  all  thought  of  his  poem  from  his  mind.  The  in- 
spiration vanished  like  a  mist.  The  de  Profundis  had 
ceased  to  ring. 

He  hurried  on  across  the  Los  Muertos  ranch,  almost 
running,  even  putting  his  hands  over  his  ears  till  he  was 
out  of  hearing  distance  of  that  all  but  human  distress. 
Not  until  he  was  beyond  ear-shot  did  he  pause,  looking 
back,  listening.  The  night  had  shut  down  again.  For 
a  moment  the  silence  was  profound,  unbroken. 


A  Story  of  California  51 

Then,  faint  and  prolonged,  across  the  levels  of  the 
ranch,  he  heard  the  engine  whistling  for  Bonneville. 
Again  and  again,  at  rapid  intervals  in  its  flying  course,  it 
whistled  for  road  crossings,  for  sharp  curves, for  trestles; 
ominous  notes,  hoarse,  bellowing,  ringing  with  the  ac- 
cents of  menace  and  defiance;  and  abruptly  Presley  saw 
again,  in  his  imagination,  the  galloping  monster,  the  ter- 
ror of  steel  and  steam,  with  its  single  eye,  cyclopean,  red, 
shooting  from  horizon  to  horizon;  but  saw  it  now  as  the 
symbol  of  a  vast  power,  huge,  terrible,  flinging  the  echo 
of  its  thunder  over  all  the  reaches  of  the  valley,  leaving 
blood  and  destruction  in  its  path  ;  the  leviathan,  with  ten- 
tacles of  steel  clutching  into  the  soil,  the  soulless  Force, 
the  iron-hearted  Power,  the  monster,  the  Colossus,  the 
Octopus. 


II 

On  the  following  morning,  Harran  Derrick  was  up  and 
about  by  a  little  after  six  o'clock,  and  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  later  had  breakfast  in  the  kitchen  of  the  ranch 
house,  preferring  not  to  wait  until  the  Chinese  cook  laid 
the  table  in  the  regular  dining-room.  He  scented  a  hard 
day's  work  ahead  of  him,  and  was  anxious  to  be  at  it  be- 
times. He  was  practically  the  manager  of  Los  Muertos, 
and,  with  the  aid  of  his  foreman  and  three  division  super- 
intendents, carried  forward  nearly  the  entire  direction  of 
the  ranch,  occupying  himself  with  the  details  of  his 
father's  plans,  executing  his  orders,  signing  contracts, 
paying  bills,  and  keeping  the  books. 

For  the  last  three  weeks  little  had  been  done.  The 
crop — such  as  it  was — had  been  harvested  and  sold,  and 
there  had  been  a  general  relaxation  of  activity  for  up- 
wards of  a  month.  Now,  however,  the  fall  was  coming 
on,  the  dry  season  was  about  at  its  end;  any  time  after 
the  twentieth  of  the  month  the  first  rains  might  be  ex- 
pected, softening  the  ground,  putting  it  into  condition 
for  the  plough.  Two  days  before  this,  Harran  had  noti- 
fied his  superintendents  on  Three  and  Four  to  send  in 
such  grain  as  they  had  reserved  for  seed.  On  Two  the 
wheat  had  not  even  shown  itself  above  the  ground,  while 
on  One,  the  Home  ranch,  which  was  under  his  own  im- 
mediate supervision,  the  seed  had  already  been  graded 
and  selected. 

It  was  Harran's  intention  to  commence  blue-stoning 
his  seed  that  day,  a  delicate  and  important  process 


A  Story  of  California  53 

which  prevented  rust  and  smut  appearing  in  the  crop 
when  the  wheat  should  come  up.  But,  furthermore,  he 
wanted  to  find  time  to  go  to  Guadalajara  to  meet  the 
Governor  on  the  morning  train.  His  day  promised  to 
be  busy. 

But  as  Harran  was  finishing  his  last  cup  of  coffee, 
Phelps,  the  foreman  on  the  Home  ranch,  who  also  looked 
after  the  storage  barns  where  the  seed  was  kept,  pre- 
sented himself,  cap  in  hand,  on  the  back  porch  by  the 
kitchen  door. 

"  I  thought  I'd  speak  to  you  about  the  seed  from  Four, 
sir,"  he  said.  "  That  hasn't  been  brought  in  yet." 

Harran  nodded. 

"  I'll  see  about  it.  You've  got  all  the  blue-stone  you 
want,  have  you,  Phelps?"  and  without  waiting  for  an 
answer  he  added,  "  Tell  the  stableman  I  shall  want  the 
team  about  nine  o'clock  to  go  to  Guadalajara.  Put  them 
in  the  buggy.  The  bays,  you  understand." 

When  the  other  had  gone,  Harran  drank  off  the  rest 
of  his  coffee,  and,  rising,  passed  through  the  dining-room 
and  across  a  stone-paved  hallway  with  a  glass  roof  into 
the  office  just  beyond. 

The  office  was  the  nerve-centre  of  the  entire  ten  thou- 
sand acres  of  Los  Muertos,  but  its  appearance  and  fur- 
nishings were  not  in  the  least  suggestive  of  a  farm.  It 
was  divided  at  about  its  middle  by  a  wire  railing,  painted 
green  and  gold,  and  behind  this  railing  were  the  high 
desks  where  the  books  were  kept,  the  safe,  the  letter- 
press and  letter-files,  and  Harran's  typewriting  machine. 
A  great  map  of  Los  Muertos  with  every  water-course, 
depression,  and  elevation,  together  with  indications  of 
the  varying  depths  of  the  clays  and  loams  in  the  soil,  ac- 
curately plotted,  hung  against  the  wall  between  the  win- 
dows, while  near  at  hand  by  the  safe  was  the  telephone. 

But,  no  doubt,  the  most  significant  object  in  the  office 


54  The  Octopus 

was  the  ticker.  This  was  an  innovation  in  the  San  Joa- 
quin,  an  idea  of  shrewd,  quick-witted  young  Annixter, 
which  Harran  and  Magnus  Derrick  had  been  quick  to 
adopt,  and  after  them  Broderson  and  Osterman,  and 
many  others  of  the  wheat  growers  of  the  county.  The 
offices  of  the  ranches  were  thus  connected  by  wire  with 
San  Francisco,  and  through  that  city  with  Minneapolis, 
Duluth,  Chicago,  New  York,  and  at  last,  and  most  im- 
portant of  all,  with  Liverpool.  Fluctuations  in  the  price 
of  the  world's  crop  during  and  after  the  harvest  thrilled 
straight  to  the  office  of  Los  Muertos,  to  that  of  the 
Quien  Sabe,  to  Osterman's,  and  to  Broderson's.  Dur- 
ing a  flurry  in  the  Chicago  wheat  pits  in  the  August  of 
that  year,  which  had  affected  even  the  San  Francisco 
market,  Harran  and  Magnus  had  sat  up  nearly  half  of  one 
night  watching  the  strip  of  white  tape  jerking  unsteadily 
from  the  reel.  At  such  moments  they  no  longer  felt 
their  individuality.  The  ranch  became  merely  the  part 
of  an  enormous  whole,  a  unit  in  the  vast  agglomera- 
tion of  wheat  land  the  whole  world  round,  feeling  the 
effects  of  causes  thousands  of  miles  distant — a  drought 
on  the  prairies  of  Dakota,  a  rain  on  the  plains  of  India, 
a  frost  on  the  Russian  steppes,  a  hot  wind  on  the  llanos 
of  the  Argentine. 

Harran  crossed  over  to  the  telephone  and  rang  six 
bells,  the  call  for  the  division  house  on  Four.  It  was  the 
most  distant,  the  most  isolated  point  on  all  the  ranch, 
situated  at  its  far  southeastern  extremity,  where  few 
people  ever  went,  close  to  the  line  fence,  a  dot,  a  speck, 
lost  in  the  immensity  of  the  open  country.  By  the  road 
it  was  eleven  miles  distant  from  the  office,  and  by  the 
trail  to  Hooven's  and  the  Lower  Road  all  of  nine. 

"  How  about  that  seed?  "  demanded  Harran  when  he 
had  got  Cutter  on  the  line. 

The  other  made  excuses  for  an  unavoidable  delay,  and 


A  Story  of  California  55 

was  adding  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  starting  out,  when 
Harran  cut  in  with: 

"  You  had  better  go  the  trail.  It  will  save  a  little 
time  and  I  am  in  a  hurry.  Put  your  sacks  on  the  horses' 
backs.  And,  Cutter,  if  you  see  Hooven  when  you  go  by 
his  place,  tell  him  I  want  him,  and,  by  the  way,  take  a 
look  at  the  end  of  the  irrigating  ditch  when  you  get  to 
it.  See  how  they  are  getting  along  there  and  if  Billy 
wants  anything.  Tell  him  we  are  expecting  those  new 
scoops  down  to-morrow  or  next  day  and  to  get  along 
with  what  he  has  until  then.  .  .  .  How's  everything 
on  Four?  .  .  .  All  right,  then.  Give  your  seed  to 
Phelps  when  you  get  here  if  I  am  not  about.  I  am  going 
to  Guadalajara  to  meet  the  Governor.  He's  coming 
down  to-day.  And  that  makes  me  think;  we  lost  the 
case,  you  know.  I  had  a  letter  from  the  Governor 
yesterday.  .  .  .  Yes,  hard  luck.  S.  Behrman  did  us 
up.  Well,  good-bye,  and  don't  lose  any  time  with  that 
seed.  I  want  to  blue-stone  to-day." 

After  telephoning  Cutter,  Harran  put  on  his  hat,  went 
over  to  the  barns,  and  found  Phelps.  Phelps  had  al- 
ready cleaned  out  the  vat  which  was  to  contain  the  solu- 
tion of  blue-stone,  and  was  now  at  work  regrading  the 
seed.  Against  the  wall  behind  him  ranged  the  row  of 
sacks.  Harran  cut  the  fastenings  of  these  and  examined 
the  contents  carefully,  taking  handfuls  of  wheat  from 
each  and  allowing  it  to  run  through  his  fingers,  or  nip- 
ping the  grains  between  his  nails,  testing  their  hard- 
ness. 

The  seed  was  all  of  the  white  varieties  of  wheat  and 
of  a  very  high  grade,  the  berries  hard  and  heavy,  rigid 
and  swollen  with  starch. 

"  If  it  was  all  like  that,  sir,  hey?  "  observed  Phelps. 

Harran  put  his  chin  in  the  air. 

"  Bread  would  be  as  good  as  cake,  then,"  he  answered, 


56  The  Octopus 

going  from  sack  to  sack,  inspecting  the  contents  and 
consulting  the  tags  affixed  to  the  mouths. 

"  Hello,"  he  remarked,  "  here's  a  red  wheat.  Where 
did  this  come  from?" 

"  That's  that  red  Clawson  we  sowed  to  the  piece  on 
Four,  north  the  Mission  Creek,  just  to  see  how  it  would 
do  here.  We  didn't  get  a  very  good  catch." 

"  We  can't  do  better  than  to  stay  by  White  Sonora  and 
Propo,"  remarked  Harran.  "  We've  got  our  best  re- 
sults with  that,  and  European  millers  like  it  to  mix  with 
the  Eastern  wheats  that  have  more  gluten  than  ours. 
That  is,  if  we  have  any  wheat  at  all  next  year." 

A  feeling  of  discouragement  for  the  moment  bore 
down  heavily  upon  him.  At  intervals  this  came  to  him 
and  for  the  moment  it  was  overpowering.  The  idea 
•of  "  what's-the-use  "  was  upon  occasion  a  veritable  op- 
pression. Everything  seemed  to  combine  to  lower  the 
price  of  wheat.  The  extension  of  wheat  areas  always 
exceeded  increase  of  population;  competition  was  grow- 
ing fiercer  every  year.  The  farmer's  profits  were  the 
object  of  attack  from  a  score  of  different  quarters.  It 
was  a  flock  of  vultures  descending  upon  a  common  prey 
— the  commission  merchant,  the  elevator  combine,  the 
mixing-house  ring,  the  banks,  the  warehouse  men,  the 
labouring  man,  and,  above  all,  the  railroad.  Steadily 
the  Liverpool  buyers  cut  and  cut  and  cut.  Everything, 
every  element  of  the  world's  markets,  tended  to  force 
down  the  price  to  the  lowest  possible  figure  at  which  it 
could  be  profitably  farmed.  Now  it  was  down  to  eighty- 
seven.  It  was  at  that  figure  the  crop  had  sold  that  year ; 
and  to  think  that  the  Governor  had  seen  wheat  at  two 
dollars  and  five  cents  in  the  year  of  the  Turko-Russian 
War! 

He  turned  back  to  the  house  after  giving  Phelps  final 
directions,  gloomy,  disheartened,  his  hands  deep  in  his 


A  Story  of  California  57 

pockets,  wondering  what  was  to  be  the  outcome.  So 
narrow  had  the  margin  of  profit  shrunk  that  a  dry  season 
meant  bankruptcy  to  the  smaller  farmers  throughout  all 
the  valley.  He  knew  very  well  how  widespread  had  been 
the  distress  the  last  two  years.  With  their  own  tenants 
on  Los  Muertos,  affairs  had  reached  the  stage  of  des- 
peration. Derrick  had  practically  been  obliged  to> 
"  carry  "  Hooven  and  some  of  the  others.  The  Gover- 
nor himself  had  made  almost  nothing  during  the  last 
season;  a  third  year  like  the  last,  with  the  price  steadily 
sagging,  meant  nothing  else  but  ruin. 

But  here  he  checked  himself.  Two  consecutive  dry 
seasons  in  California  were  almost  unprecedented;  a  third 
would  be  beyond  belief,  and  the  complete  rest  for  nearly 
all  the  land  was  a  compensation.  They  had  made  no 
money,  that  was  true;  but  they  had  lost  none.  Thank 
God,  the  homestead  was  free  of  mortgage;  one  good  sea- 
son would  more  than  make  up  the  difference. 

He  was  in  a  better  mood  by  the  time  he  reached  the 
driveway  that  led  up  to  the  ranch  house,  and  as  he  raised 
his  eyes  toward  the  house  itself,  he  could  not  but  feel  that 
the  sight  of  his  home  was  cheering.  The  ranch  house 
was  set  in  a  great  grove  of  eucalyptus,  oak,  and  cypress, 
enormous  trees  growing  from  out  a  lawn  that  was  as 
green,  as  fresh,  and  as  well-groomed  as  any  in  a  garden 
in  the  city.  This  lawn  flanked  all  one  side  of  the  house, 
and  it  was  on  this  side  that  the  family  elected  to  spend 
most  of  its  time.  The  other  side,  looking  out  upon  the 
Home  ranch  toward  Bonneville  and  the  railroad,  was  but 
little  used.  A  deep  porch  ran  the  whole  length  of  the 
house  here,  and  in  the  lower  branches  of  a  live-oak  near 
the  steps  Harran  had  built  a  little  summer  house  for  his 
mother.  To  the  left  of  the  ranch  house  itself,  toward 
the  County  Road,  was  the  bunk-house  and  kitchen  for 
some  of  the  hands.  From  the  steps  of  the  porch  the 


58  The  Octopus 

view  to  the  southward  expanded  to  infinity.  There  was 
not  so  much  as  a  twig  to  obstruct  the  view.  In  one  leap 
the  eye  reached  the  fine,  delicate  line  where  earth  and 
sky  met,  miles  away.  The  flat  monotony  of  the  land, 
clean  of  fencing,  was  broken  by  one  spot  only,  the  roof 
of  the  Division  Superintendent's  house  on  Three — a  mere 
speck,  just  darker  than  the  ground.  Cutter's  house  on 
Four  was  not  even  in  sight.  That  was  below  the 
horizon.  v 

As  Harran  came  up  he  saw  his  mother  at  breakfast. 
The  table  had  been  set  on  the  porch  and  Mrs.  Derrick, 
stirring  her  coffee  with  one  hand,  held  open  with  the 
other  the  pages  of  Walter  Pater's  "  Marius."  At  her 
feet,  Princess  Nathalie,  the  white  Angora  cat,  sleek, 
over-fed,  self-centred,  sat  on  her  haunches,  industriously 
licking  at  the  white  fur  of  her  breast,  while  neai  at  hand, 
by  the  railing  of  the  porch,  Presley  pottered  with  a  new 
bicycle  lamp,  filling  it  with  oil,  adjusting  the  wicks. 

Harran  kissed  his  mother  and  sat  down  in  a  wicker 
chair  on  the  porch,  removing  his  hat,  running  his  fingers 
through  his  yellow  hair. 

Magnus  Derrick's  wife  looked  hardly  old  enough  to 
be  the  mother  of  two  such  big  fellows  as  Harran  and 
Lyman  Derrick.  She  was  not  far  into  the  fifties,  and 
her  brown  hair  still  retained  much  of  its  brightness.  She 
could  yet  be  called  pretty.  Her  eyes  were  large  and 
easily  assumed  a  look  of  inquiry  and  innocence,  such  as 
one  might  expect  to  see  in  a  young  girl.  By  disposition 
she  was  retiring;  she  easily  obliterated  herself.  She  was 
not  made  for  the  harshness  of  the  world,  and  yet  she  had 
known'these  harshnesses  in  her  younger  days.  Magnus 
had  married  her  when  she  was  twenty-one  years  old,  at 
a  time  when  she  was  a  graduate  of  some  years'  standing 
from  the  State  Normal  School  and  was  teaching  litera- 
ture, music,  and  penmanship  in  a  seminary  in  the  town 


A  Story  of  California  59 

of  Marysville.  She  overworked  herself  here  continu- 
ally, loathing  the  strain  of  teaching,  yet  clinging  to  it 
with  a  tenacity  born  of  the  knowledge  that  it  was  her 
only  means  of  support.  Both  her  parents  were  dead; 
she  was  dependent  upon  herself.  Her  one  ambition  was 
to  see  Italy  and  the  Bay  of  Naples.  The  "Marble 
Faun,"  Raphael's  "Madonnas"  and  "II  Trovatore " 
were  her  beau  ideals  of  literature  and  art.  She  dreamed 
of  Italy,  Rome,  Naples,  and  the  world's  great  "  art- 
centres."  There  was  no  doubt  that  her  affair  with  Mag- 
nus had  been  a  love-match,  but  Annie  Payne  would  have 
loved  any  man  who  would  have  taken  her  out  of  the 
droning,  heart-breaking  routine  of  the  class  and  music 
room.  She  had  followed  his  fortunes  unquestioningly. 
First  at  Sacramento,  during  the  turmoil  of  his  political 
career,  later  on  at  Placerville  in  El  Dorado  County,  after 
Derrick  had  interested  himself  in  the  Corpus  Christi 
group  of  mines,  and  finally  at  Los  Muertos,  where,  after 
selling  out  his  fourth  interest  in  Corpus  Christi,  he  had 
turned  rancher  and  had  "  come  in  "  on  the  new  tracts 
of  wheat  land  just  thrown  open  by  the  railroad.  She 
had  lived  here  now  for  nearly  ten  years.  But  never  for 
one  moment  since  the  time  her  glance  first  lost  itself  in 
the  unbroken  immensity  of  the  ranches  had  she  known 
a  moment's  content.  Continually  there  came  into  her 
pretty,  wide-open  eyes — the  eyes  of  a  young  doe — a  look 
of  uneasiness,  of  distrust,  and  aversion.  Los  Muertos 
frightened  her.  She  remembered  the  days  of  her  young 
girlhood  passed  on  a  farm  in  eastern  Ohio — five  hundred 
acres,  neatly  partitioned  into  the  water  lot,  the  cow  pas- 
ture, the  corn  lot,  the  barley  field,  and  wheat  farm ;  cosey, 
comfortable,  home-like;  where  the  farmers  loved  their 
land,  caressing  it,  coaxing  it,  nourishing  it  as  though  it 
were  a  thing  almost  conscious ;  where  the  seed  was  sown 
by  hand,  and  a  single  two-horse  plough  was  sufficient 


60  The  Octopus 

for  the  entire  farm;  where  the  scythe  sufficed  to  cut  the 
harvest  and  the  grain  was  thrashed  with  flails. 

But  this  new  order  of  things — a  ranch  bounded  only 
by  the  horizons,  where,  as  far  as  one  could  see,  to  the 
north,  to  the  east,  to  the  south  and  to  the  west,  was  all 
one  holding,  a  principality  ruled  with  iron  and  steam, 
bullied  into  a  yield  of  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
bushels,  where  even  when  the  land  was  resting,  un- 
ploughed,  unharrowed,  and  unsown,  the  wheat  came  up 
— troubled  her,  and  even  at  times  filled  her  with  an  un- 
definable  terror.  To  her  mind  there  was  something  in- 
ordinate about  it  all ;  something  almost  unnatural.  The 
direct  brutality  of  ten  thousand  acres  of  wheat,  nothing 
but  wheat  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  stunned  her  a  little. 
The  one-time  writing-teacher  of  a  young  ladies'  semi- 
nary, with  her  pretty  deer-like  eyes  and  delicate  fingers, 
shrank  from  it.  She  did  not  want  to  look  at  so  much 
wheat.  There  was  something  vaguely  indecent  in  the 
sight,  this  food  of  the  people,  this  elemental  force,  this 
basic  energy,  weltering  here  under  the  sun  in  all  the  un- 
conscious nakedness  of  a  sprawling,  primordial  Titan. 

The  monotony  of  the  ranch  ate  into  her  heart  hour  by 
hour,  year  by  year.  And  with  it  all,  when  was  she  to  see 
Rome,  Italy,  and  the  Bay  of  Naples  ?  It  was  a  different 
prospect  truly.  Magnus  had  given  her  his  promise  that 
once  the  ranch  was  well  established,  they  two  should 
travel.  But  continually  he  had  been  obliged  to  put  her 
off,  now  for  one  reason,  now  for  another;  the  machine 
would  not  as  yet  run  of  itself,  he  must  still  feel  his  hand 
upon  the  lever ;  next  year,  perhaps,  when  wheat  should 
go  to  ninety,  or  the  rains  were  good.  She  did  not  insist. 
She  obliterated  herself,  only  allowing,  from  time  to  time, 
her  pretty,  questioning  eyes  to  meet  his.  In  the  mean- 
time she  retired  within  herself.  She  surrounded  herself 
with  books.  Her  taste  was  of  the  delicacy  of  point  lace. 


A  Story  of  California  61 

She  knew  her  Austin  Dobson  by  heart.  She  read  poems, 
essays,  the  ideas  of  the  seminary  at  Marysville  per- 
sisting in  her  mind.  "  Marius  the  Epicurean,"  "  The 
Essays  of  Elia,"  "  Sesame  and  Lilies,"  "  The  Stones  of 
Venice,"  and  the  little  toy  magazines,  full  of  the  flaccid 
banalities  of  the  "  Minor  Poets,"  were  continually  in  her 
hands. 

When  Presley  had  appeared  on  Los  Muertos,  she  had 
welcomed  his  arrival  with  delight.  Here  at  last  was  a 
congenial  spirit.  She  looked  forward  to  long  conversa- 
tions with  the  young  man  on  literature,  art,  and  ethics. 
But  Presley  had  disappointed  her.  That  he — outside  of 
his  few  chosen  deities — should  care  little  for  literature, 
shocked  her  beyond  words.  His  indifference  to  "  style," 
to  elegant  English,  was  a  positive  affront.  His  savage 
abuse  and  open  ridicule  of  the  neatly  phrased  rondeaux 
and  sestinas  and  chansonettes  of  the  little  magazines  was 
to  her  mind  a  wanton  and  uncalled-for  cruelty.  She 
found  his  Homer,  with  its  slaughters  and  hecatombs 
and  barbaric  feastings  and  headstrong  passions,  violent 
and  coarse.  She  could  not  see  with  him  any  romance, 
any  poetry  in  the  life  around  her ;  she  looked  to  Italy  for 
that.  His  "  Song  of  the  West,"  which  only  once,  inco- 
herent and  fierce,  he  had  tried  to  explain  to  her,  its  swift, 
tumultuous  life,  its  truth,  its  nobility  and  savagery,  its 
heroism  and  obscenity,  had  revolted  her. 

"  But,  Presley,"  she  had  murmured,  "  that  is  not  lit- 
erature." 

"  No,"  he  had  cried  between  his  teeth,  "  no,  thank 
God,  it  is  not." 

A  little  later,  one  of  the  stablemen  brought  the  buggy 
with  the  team  of  bays  up  to  the  steps  of  the  porch,  and 
Harran,  putting  on  a  different  coat  and  a  black  hat,  took 
himself  off  to  Guadalajara. 

The  morning  was  fine ;  there  was  no  cloud  in  the  sky, 


62  The  Octopus 

but  as  Harran's  buggy  drew  away  from  the  grove  oi 
trees  about  the  ranch  house,  emerging  into  the  open 
country  on  either  side  of  the  Lower  Road,  he  caught 
himself  looking  sharply  at  the  sky  and  the  faint  line  of 
hills  beyond  the  Quien  Sabe  ranch.  There  was  a  certain 
indefinite  cast  to  the  landscape  that  to  Harran's  eye  was 
not  to  be  mistaken.  Rain,  the  first  of  the  season,  was 
not  far  off. 

"That's  good/'  he  muttered, touching  the  bays  with  the 
whip,  "  we  can't  get  our  ploughs  to  hand  any  too  soon." 

These  ploughs  Magnus  Derrick  had  ordered  from  an 
Eastern  manufacturer  some  months  before,  since  he  was 
dissatisfied  with  the  results  obtained  from  the  ones  he 
had  used  hitherto,  which  were  of  local  make.  However, 
there  had  been  exasperating  and  unexpected  delays  in 
their  shipment.  Magnus  and  Harran  both  had  counted 
upon  having  the  ploughs  in  their  implement  barns  that 
very  week,  but  a  tracer  sent  after  them  had  only  resulted 
in  locating  them,  still  en  route,  somewhere  between  The 
Needles  and  Bakersfield.  Now  there  was  likelihood  of 
rain  within  the  week.  Ploughing  could  be  undertaken 
immediately  afterward,  so  soon  as  the  ground  was 
softened,  but  there  was  a  fair  chance  that  the  ranch 
would  lie  idle  for  want  of  proper  machinery. 

It  was  ten  minutes  before  train  time  when  Harran 
reached  the  depot  at  Guadalajara.  The  San  Francisco 
papers  of  the  preceding  day  had  arrived  on  an  earlier 
train.  He  bought  a  couple  from  the  station  agent  and 
looked  them  over  till  a  distant  and  prolonged  whistle 
announced  the  approach  of  the  down  train. 

In  one  of  the  four  passengers  that  alighted  from  the 
train,  he  recognised  his  father.  He  half  rose  in  his  seat, 
whistling  shrilly  between  his  teeth,  waving  his  hand,  and 
Magnus  Derrick,  catching  sight  of  him,  came  forward 
quickly. 


A  Story  of  California  63 

Magnus — the  Governor — was  all  of  six  feet  tall,  and 
though  now  well  toward  his  sixtieth  year,  was  as  erect 
as  an  officer  of  cavalry.*  He  was  broad  in  proportion,  a 
fine  commanding  figure,  imposing  an  immediate  respect, 
impressing  one  with  a  sense  of  gravity,  of  dignity  and  a 
certain  pride  of  race.  He  was  smooth-shaven,  thin- 
lipped,  with  a  broad  chin,  and  a  prominent  hawk-like 
nose — the  characteristic  of  the  family — thin,  with  a  high 
bridge,  such  as  one  sees  in  the  later  portraits  of  the  Duke 
of  Wellington.  His  hair  was  thick  and  iron-grey,  and 
had  a  tendency  to  curl  in  a  forward  direction  just  in  front 
of  his  ears.  He  wore  a  top-hat  of  grey,  with  a  wide  brim, 
and  a  frock  coat,  and  carried  a  cane  with  a  yellowed 
ivory  head. 

As  a  young  man  it  had  been  his  ambition  to  represent 
his  native  State — North  Carolina — in  the  United  States 
Senate.  Calhoun  was  his  "  great  man,"  but  in  two  suc- 
cessive campaigns  he  had  been  defeated.  His  career 
checked  in  this  direction,  he  had  come  to  California  in 
the  fifties.  He  had  known  and  had  been  the  intimate 
friend  of  such  men  as  Terry,  Broderick,  General  Baker, 
Lick,  Alvarado,  Emerich,  Larkin,  and,  above  all,  of  the 
unfortunate  and  misunderstood  Ralston.  Once  he  had 
been  put  forward  as  the  Democratic  candidate  for  gov- 
ernor, but  failed  of  election.  After  this  Magnus  had 
definitely  abandoned  politics  and  had  invested  all  his 
money  in  the  Corpus  Christi  mines.  Then  he  had  sold 
out  his  interest  at  a  small  profit — just  in  time  to  miss  his 
chance  of  becoming  a  multi-millionaire  in  the  Comstock 
boom — and  was  looking  for  reinvestments  in  other  lines 
when  the  news  that  "  wheat  had  been  discovered  in  Cali- 
fornia "  was  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth.  Practically 
it  amounted  to  a  discovery.  Dr.  Glenn's  first  harvest  of 
wheat  in  Colusa  County,  quietly  undertaken  but  sud- 
denly realised  with  dramatic  abruptness,  gave  a  new  mat- 


64  The  Octopus 

ter  for  reflection  to  the  thinking  men  of  the  New  West. 
California  suddenly  leaped  unheralded  into  the  world's 
market  as  a  competitor  in  wheat  production.  In  a  few 
years  her  output  of  wheat  exceeded  the  value  of  her  out- 
put of  gold,  and  when,  later  on,  the  Pacific  and  South- 
western Railroad  threw  open  to  settlers  the  rich  lands 
of  Tulare  County — conceded  to  the  corporation  by  the 
government  as  a  bonus  for  the  construction  of  the  road 
— Magnus  had  been  quick  to  seize  the  opportunity  and 
had  taken  up  the  ten  thousand  acres  of  Los  Muertos. 
Wherever  he  had  gone,  Magnus  had  taken  his  family 
with  him.  Lyman  had  been  born  at  Sacramento  during 
the  turmoil  and  excitement  of  Derrick's  campaign  for 
governor,  and  Harran  at  Shingle  Springs,  in  El  Dorado 
County,  six  years  later. 

But  Magnus  was  in  every  sense  the  "  prominent  man." 
In  whatever  circle  he  moved  he  was  the  chief  figure.  In- 
stinctively other  men  looked  to  him  as  the  leader.  He 
himself  was  proud  of  this  distinction;  he  assumed  the 
grand  manner  very  easily  and  carried  it  well.  As  a  pub- 
lic speaker  he  was  one  of  the  last  of  the  followers  of  the 
old  school  of  orators.  He  even  carried  the  diction  and 
manner  of  the  rostrum  into  private  life.  It  was  said  of 
him  that  his  most  colloquial  conversation  could  be  taken 
down  in  shorthand  and  read  off  as  an  admirable  speci- 
men of  pure,  well-chosen  English.  He  loved  to  do  things 
upon  a  grand  scale,  to  preside,  to  dominate.  In  his 
good  humour  there  was  something  Jovian.  When  angry, 
everybody  around  him  trembled.  But  he  had  not  the 
genius  for  detail,  was  not  patient.  The  certain  grandi- 
ose lavishness  of  his  disposition  occupied  itself  more 
with  results  than  with  means.  He  was  always  ready  to 
take  chances,  to  hazard  everything  on  the  hopes  of 
colossal  returns.  In  the  mining  days  at  Placerville  there 
was  no  more  redoubtable  poker  player  in  the  county. 


A  Story  of  California  65 

He  had  been  as  lucky  in  his  mines  as  in  his  gambling, 
sinking  shafts  and  tunnelling  in  violation  of  expert 
theory  and  rinding  "  pay  "  in  every  case.  Without  know- 
ing it,  he  allowed  himself  to  work  his  ranch  much  as  if 
he  was  still  working  his  mine.  The  old-time  spirit  of 
'49,  hap-hazard,  unscientific,  persisted  in  his  mind. 
Everything  was  a  gamble — who  took  the  greatest 
chances  was  most  apt  to  be  the  greatest  winner.  The 
idea  of  manuring  Los  Muertos,  of  husbanding  his  great 
resources,  he  would  have  scouted  as  niggardly,  He- 
braic, ungenerous. 

Magnus  climbed  into  the  buggy,  helping  himself  with 
Harran's  outstretched  hand  which  he  still  held.  The 
two  were  immensely  fond  of  each  other,  proud  of  each 
other.  They  were  constantly  together  and  Magnus  kept 
no  secrets  from  his  favourite  son. 

"  Well,  boy." 

"  Well,  Governor." 

"  I  am  very  pleased  you  came  yourself,  Harran.  I 
feared  that  you  might  be  too  busy  and  send  Phelps.  It 
was  thoughtful." 

Harran  was  about  to  reply,  but  at  that  moment  Mag- 
nus caught  sight  of  the  three  flat  cars  loaded  with  bright- 
painted  farming  machines  which  still  remained  on  the 
siding  above  the  station.  He  laid  his  hands  on  the  reins 
and  Harran  checked  the  team. 

"  Harran,"  observed  Magnus,  fixing  the  machinery 
with  a  judicial  frown,  "  Harran,  those  look  singularly 
like  our  ploughs.  Drive  over,  boy." 

The  train  had  by  this  time  gone  on  its  way  and  Har- 
ran brought  the  team  up  to  the  siding. 

"  Ah,  I  was  right,"  said  the  Governor.  " '  Magnus 
Derrick,  Los  Muertos,  Bonneville,  from  Ditson  &  Co., 
Rochester/  These  are  ours,  boy." 

Harran  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 


66  The  Octopus 

"  At  last,"  he  answered,  "  and  just  in  time,  too.  We'll 
have  rain  before  the  week  is  out.  I  think,  now  that  I  am 
here,  I  will  telephone  Phelps  to  send  the  wagon  right 
down  for  these.  I  started  blue-stoning  to-day." 

Magnus  nodded  a  grave  approval. 

"  That  was  shrewd,  boy.  As  to  the  rain,  I  think  you 
are  well  informed;  we  will  have  an  early  season.  The 
ploughs  have  arrived  at  a  happy  moment." 

"  It  means  money  to  us,  Governor,"  remarked  Harran. 

But  as  he  turned  the  horses  to  allow  his  father  to  get 
into  the  buggy  again,  the  two  were  surprised  to  hear  a 
thick,  throaty  voice  wishing  them  good-morning,  and 
turning  about  were  aware  of  S.  Behrman,  who  had  come 
up  while  they  were  examining  the  ploughs.  Harran's 
eyes  flashed  on  the  instant  and  through  his  nostrils  he 
drew  a  sharp,  quick  breath,  while  a  certain  rigour  of  car- 
riage stiffened  the  set  of  Magnus  Derrick's  shoulders 
and  back.  Magnus  had  not  yet  got  into  the  buggy,  but 
stood  with  the  team  between  him  and  S.  Behrman,  eye- 
ing him  calmly  across  the  horses'  backs.  S.  Behrman 
came  around  to  the  other  side  of  the  buggy  and  faced 
Magnus. 

He  was  a  large,  fat  man,  with  a  great  stomach;  his 
cheek  and  the  upper  part  of  his  thick  neck  ran  together 
to  form  a  great  tremulous  jowl,  shaven  and  blue-grey  in 
colour;  a  roll  of  fat,  sprinkled  with  sparse  hair,  moist 
with  perspiration,  protruded  over  the  back  of  his  collar. 
He  wore  a  heavy  black  moustache.  On  his  head  was  a 
round-topped  hat  of  stiff  brown  straw,  highly  varnished. 
A  light-brown  linen  vest,  stamped  with  innumerable  in- 
terlocked horseshoes,  covered  his  protuberant  stomach, 
upon  which  a  heavy  watch  chain  of  hollow  links  rose 
and  fell  with  his  difficult  breathing,  clinking  against  the 
vest  buttons  of  imitation  mother-of-pearl. 

S.  Behrman  was  the  banker  of  Bonneville.     But  be- 


A  Story  of  California  67 

sides  this  he  was  many  other  things.  He  was  a  real 
estate  agent.  He  bought  grain ;  he  dealt  in  mortgages. 
He  was  one  of  the  local  political  bosses,  but  more  im- 
portant than  all  this,  he  was  the  representative  of  the 
Pacific  and  Southwestern  Railroad  in  that  section  of 
Tulare  County.  The  railroad  did  little  business  in  that 
part  of  the  country  that  S.  Behrman  did  not  supervise, 
from  the  consignment  of  a  shipment  of  wheat  to  the 
management  of  a  damage  suit,  or  even  to  the  repair 
and  maintenance  of  the  right  of  way.  During  the  time 
when  the  ranchers  of  the  county  were  righting  the  grain- 
rate  case,  S.  Behrman  had  been  much  in  evidence  in 
and  about  the  San  Francisco  court  rooms  and  the  lobby 
of  the  legislature  in  Sacramento.  He  had  returned  to 
Bonneville  only  recently,  a  decision  adverse  to  the 
ranchers  being  foreseen.  The  position  he  occupied  on 
the  salary  list  of  the  Pacific  and  Southwestern  could  not 
readily  be  defined,  for  he  was  neither  freight  agent,  pas- 
senger agent,  attorney,  real-estate  broker,  nor  political 
servant,  though  his  influence  in  all  these  offices  was  un- 
doubted and  enormous.  But  for  all  that,  the  ranchers 
about  Bonneville  knew  whom  to  look  to  as  a  source  of 
trouble.  There  was  no  denying  the  fact  that  for  Oster- 
man,  Broderson,  Annixter  and  Derrick,  S.  Behrman  was 
the  railroad. 

"  Mr.  Derrick,  good-morning,"  he  cried  as  he  came 
up.  "  Good-morning,  Harran.  Glad  to  see  you  back, 
Mr.  Derrick."  He  held  out  a  thick  hand. 

Magnus,  head  and  shoulders  above  the  other,  tall, 
thin,  erect,  looked  down  upon  S.  Behrman,  inclining 
his  head,  failing  to  see  his  extended  hand. 

"  Good-morning,  sir,"  he  observed,  and  waited  for  S. 
Behrman's  further  speech. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Derrick,"  continued  S.  Behrman,  wiping 
the  back  of  his  neck  with  his  handkerchief,  "  I  saw  in  the 


68  The  Octopus 

city  papers  yesterday  that  our  case  had  gone  against 
you." 

"  I  guess  it  wasn't  any  great  news  to  you,"  commented 
Harran,  his  face  scarlet.  "  I  guess  you  knew  which  way 
Ulsteen  was  going  to  jump  after  your  very  first  inter- 
view with  him.  You  don't  like  to  be  surprised  in  this 
sort  of  thing,  S.  Behrman." 

"  Now,  you  know  better  than  that,  Harran,"  remon- 
strated S.  Behrman  blandly.  "  I  know  what  you  mean 
to  imply,  but  I  ain't  going  to  let  it  make  me  get  mad. 
I  wanted  to  say  to  your  Governor — I  wanted  to  say  to 
you,  Mr.  Derrick — as  one  man  to  another — letting  alone 
for  the  minute  that  we  were  on  opposite  sides  of  the  case 
— that  I'm  sorry  you  didn't  win.  Your  side  made  a  good 
fight,  but  it  was  in  a  mistaken  cause.  That's  the  whole 
trouble.  Why,  you  could  have  figured  out  before  you 
ever  went  into  the  case  that  such  rates  are  confiscation 
of  property.  You  must  allow  us — must  allow  the  rail- 
road— a  fair  interest  on  the  investment.  You  don't 
want  us  to  go  into  the  receiver's  hands,  do  you  now,  Mr. 
Derrick?" 

"  The  Board  of  Railroad  Commissioners  was  bought," 
remarked  Magnus  sharply,  a  keen,  brisk  flash  glinting 
in  his  eye. 

"  It  was  part  of  the  game,"  put  in  Harran,  "  for  the 
Railroad  Commission  to  cut  rates  to  a  ridiculous  fig- 
ure, far  below  a  reasonable  figure,  just  so  that  it  would  be 
confiscation.  Whether  Ulsteen  is  a  tool  of  yours  or  not, 
he  had  to  put  the  rates  back  to  what  they  were  orig- 
inally." 

"  If  you  enforced  those  rates,  Mr.  Harran,"  returned 
S.  Behrman  calmly,  "  we  wouldn't  be  able  to  earn  suf- 
ficient money  to  meet  operating  expenses  or  fixed 
charges,  to  say  nothing  of  a  surplus  left  over  to  pay 
dividends " 


A  Story  of  California  69 

"  Tell  me  when  the  P.  and  S.  W.  ever  paid  divi- 
dends." 

"  The  lowest  rates,"  continued  S.  Behrman,  "  that  the 
legislature  can  establish  must  be  such  as  will  secure  us  a 
fair  interest  on  our  investment." 

"  Well,  what's  your  standard  ?  Come,  let's  hear  it. 
Who  is  to  say  what's  a  fair  rate?  The  railroad  has  its 
own  notions  of  fairness  sometimes." 

"  The  laws  of  the  State,"  returned  S.  Behrman,  "  fix 
the  rate  of  interest  at  seven  per  cent.  That's  a  good 
enough  standard  for  us.  There  is  no  reason,  Mr.  Har- 
ran,  why  a  dollar  invested  in  a  railroad  should  not  earn 
as  much  as  a  dollar  represented  by  a  promissory  note — 
seven  per  cent.  By  applying  your  schedule  of  rates  we 
would  not  earn  a  cent ;  we  would  be  bankrupt." 

"  Interest  on  your  investment !"  cried  Harran,  furious. 
"  It's  fine  to  talk  about  fair  interest.  /  know  and  you 
know  that  the  total  earnings  of  the  P.  and  S.  W. — their 
main,  branch  and  leased  lines  for  last  year — was  between 
nineteen  and  twenty  millions  of  dollars.  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that  twenty  million  dollars  is  seven  per  cent,  of  the 
original  cost  of  the  road?  " 

S.  Behrman  spread  out  his  hands,  smiling. 

"  That  was  the  gross,  not  the  net  figure — and  how  can 
you  tell  what  was  the  original  cost  of  the  road?" 

"  Ah,  that's  just  it,"  shouted  Harran,  emphasising 
each  word  with  a  blow  of  his  fist  upon  his  knee,  his  eyes 
sparkling,  "  you  take  cursed  good  care  that  we  don't 
know  anything  about  the  original  cost  of  the  road.  But 
we  know  you  are  bonded  for  treble  your  value ;  and  we 
know  this :  that  the  road  could  have  been  built  for  fifty- 
four  thousand  dollars  per  mile  and  that  you  say  it  cost 
you  eighty-seven  thousand.  It  makes  a  difference,  S. 
Behrman,  on  which  of  these  two  figures  you  are  basing 
your  seven  per  cent." 


70  The  Octopus 

"  That  all  may  show  obstinacy,  Harran,"  observed  St 
Behrman  vaguely,  "  but  it  don't  show  common  sense." 

"  We  are  threshing  out  old  straw,  I  believe,  gentle- 
men," remarked  Magnus.  "  The  question  was  thor- 
oughly sifted  in  the  courts." 

"  Quite  right,"  assented  S.  Behrman.  "  The  best  way 
is  that  the  railroad  and  the  farmer  understand  each  other 
and  get  along  peaceably.  We  are  both  dependent  on 
each  other.  Your  ploughs,  I  believe,  Mr.  Derrick." 
S.  Behrman  nodded  toward  the  flat  cars. 

"  They  are  consigned  to  me,"  admitted  Magnus. 

"  It  looks  a  trifle  like  rain,"  observed  S.  Behrman, 
easing  his  neck  and  jowl  in  his  limp  collar.  "  I  suppose 
you  will  want  to  begin  ploughing  next  week." 

"  Possibly,"  said  Magnus. 

"  I'll  see  that  your  ploughs  are  hurried  through  for  you 
then,  Mr.  Derrick.  We  will  route  them  by  fast  freight 
for  you  and  it  won't  cost  you  anything  extra." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  demanded  Harran.  "  The 
ploughs  are  here.  We  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  the 
railroad.  I  am  going  to  have  my  wagons  down  here  this 
afternoon." 

"  I  am.  sorry,"  answered  S.  Behrman,  "  but  the  cars 
are  going  north,  not,  as  you  thought,  coming  from  the 
north.  They  have  not  been  to  San  Francisco  yet." 

Magnus  made  a  slight  movement  of  the  head  as  one 
who  remembers  a  fact  hitherto  forgotten.  But  Harran 
was  as  yet  unenlightened. 

"  To  San  Francisco !  "  he  answered,  "  we  want  them 
here — what  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  know,  of  course,  the  regulations,"  an- 
swered S.  Behrman.  "  Freight  of  this  kind  coming  from 
the  Eastern  points  into  the  State  must  go  first  to  one  of 
our  common  points  and  be  reshipped  from  there." 

Harran  did  remember  now,  but  never  before  had  the 


A  Story  of  California  71 

matter  so  struck  home.  He  leaned  back  in  his  seat  in 
dumb  amazement  for  the  instant.  Even  Magnus  had 
turned  a  little  pale.  Then,  abruptly,  Harran  broke  out 
violent  and  raging. 

"  What  next  ?  My  God,  why  don't  you  break  into  our 
houses  at  night  ?  Why  don't  you  steal  the  watch  out  of 
my  pocket,  steal  the  horses  out  of  the  harness,  hold  us  up 
with  a  shot-gun;  yes,  '  stand  and  deliver;  your  money  or 
your  life.'  Here  we  bring  our  ploughs  from  the  East  over 
your  lines,  but  you're  not  content  with  your  long-haul 
rate  between  Eastern  points  and  Bonneville.  You  want 
to  get  us  under  your  ruinous  short-haul  rate  between 
Bonneviile  and  San  Francisco,  and  return.  Think  of  it ! 
Here's  a  load  of  stuff  for  Bonneville  that  can't  stop  at 
Bonneville,  where  it  is  consigned,  but  has  got  to  go  up  to 
San  Francisco  first  by  way  of  Bonneville,  at  forty  cents 
per  ton  and  then  be  reshipped  from  San  Francisco  back 
to  Bonneville  again  at  fifty-one  cents  per  ton,  the  short- 
haul  rate.  And  we  have  to  pay  it  all  or  go  without. 
Here  are  the  ploughs  right  here,  in  sight  of  the  land  they 
have  got  to  be  used  on,  the  season  just  ready  for  them, 
and  we  can't  touch  them.  Oh,"  he  exclaimed  in  deep 
disgust,  "  isn't  it  a  pretty  mess !  Isn't  it  a  farce !  the 
whole  dirty  business  !  " 

S.  Behrman  listened  to  him  unmoved,  his  little  eyes 
blinking  under  his  fat  forehead,  the  gold  chain  of  hollow 
links  clicking  against  the  pearl  buttons  of  his  waistcoat 
as  he  breathed. 

"  It  don't  do  any  good  to  let  loose  like  that,  Harran," 
he  said  at  length.  "  I  am  willing  to  do  what  I  can  for 
you.  I'll  hurry  the  ploughs  through,  but  I  can't  change 
the  freight  regulation  of  the  road." 

"  What's  your  blackmail  for  this  ?  "  vociferated  Har- 
ran. "How  much  do  you  want  to  let  us  go?  How 
much  have  we  got  to  pay  you  to  be  allowed  to  use 


72  The  Octopus 

our  own  ploughs — what's  your  figure?  Come,  spit  it 
out." 

"  I  see  you  are  trying  to  make  me  angry,  Harran," 
returned  S.  Behrman,  "  but  you  won't  succeed.  Better 
give  up  trying,  my  boy.  As  I  said,  the  best  way  is  to 
have  the  railroad  and  the  farmer  get  along  amicably.  It 
is  the  only  way  we  can  do  business.  Well,  s'long,  Gov- 
ernor, I  must  trot  along.  S'long,  Harran."  He  took 
himself  off. 

But  before  leaving  Guadalajara  Magnus  dropped  into 
the  town's  small  grocery  store  to  purchase  a  box  of 
cigars  of  a  certain  Mexican  brand,  unprocurable  else- 
where. Harran  remained  in  the  buggy. 

While  he  waited,  Dyke  appeared  at  the  end  of  the 
street,  and,  seeing  Derrick's  younger  son,  came  over  to 
shake  hands  with  him.  He  explained  his  affair  with  the 
P.  and  S.  W.,  and  asked  the  young  man  what  he  thought 
of  the  expected  rise  in  the  price  of  hops. 

"  Hops  ought  to  be  a  good  thing,"  Harran  told  him. 
"  The  crop  in  Germany  and  in  New  York  has  been  a  dead 
failure  for  the  last  three  years,  and  so  many  people  have 
gone  out  of  the  business  that  there's  likely  to  be  a 
shortage  and  a  stiff  advance  in  the  price.  They  ought  to 
go  to  a  dollar  next  year.  Sure,  hops  ought  to  be  a  good 
thing.  How's  the  old  lady  and  Sidney,  Dyke  ?  " 

"  Why,  fairly  well,  thank  you,  Harran.  They're  up  to 
Sacramento  just  now  to  see  my  brother.  I  was  think- 
ing of  going  in  with  my  brother  into  this  hop  business. 
But  I  had  a  letter  from  him  this  morning.  He  may  not 
be  able  to  meet  me  on  this  proposition.  He's  got  other 
business  on  hand.  If  he  pulls  out — and  he  probably  will 
— I'll  have  to  go  it  alone,  but  I'll  have  to  borrow.  I  had 
thought  with  his  money  and  mine  we  would  have  enough 
to  pull  off  the  affair  without  mortgaging  anything.  As 
it  is,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  see  S.  Behrman." 


A  Story  of  California  73 

"  I'll  be  cursed  if  I  would ! "  exclaimed  Harran. 

"  Well,  S.  Behrman  is  a  screw,"  admitted  the  engi- 
neer, "  and  he  is  '  railroad  '  to  his  boots ;  but  business  is 
business,  and  he  would  have  to  stand  by  a  contract  in 
black  and  white,  and  this  chance  in  hops  is  too  good  to 
let  slide.  I  guess  we'll  try  it  on,  Harran.  I  can  get  a 
good  foreman  that  knows  all  about  hops  just  now,  and 
if  the  deal  pays — well,  I  want  to  send  Sid  to  a  seminary 
up  in  San  Francisco." 

"  Well,  mortgage  the  crops,  but  don't  mortgage  the 
homestead,  Dyke,"  said  Harran.  "  And,  by  the  way, 
have  you  looked  up  the  freight  rates  on  hops  ?  " 

"  No,  I  haven't  yet,"  answered  Dyke,  "  and  I  had  bet- 
ter be  sure  of  that,  hadn't  I  ?  I  hear  that  the  rate  is  rea- 
sonable, though." 

"  You  be  sure  to  have  a  clear  understanding  with  the 
railroad  first  about  the  rate,"  Harran  warned  him. 

When  Magnus  came  out  of  the  grocery  store  and  once 
more  seated  himself  in  the  buggy,  he  said  to  Harran, 
"  Boy,  drive  over  here  to  Annixter's  before  we  start 
home.  I  want  to  ask  him  to  dine  with  us  to-night. 
Osterman  and  Broderson  are  to  drop  in,  I  believe,  and  I 
should  like  to  have  Annixter  as  well." 

Magnus  was  lavishly  hospitable.  Los  Muertos's  doors 
invariably  stood  open  to  all  the  Derricks'  neighbours, 
and  once  in  so  often  Magnus  had  a  few  of  his  intimates  to 
dinner. 

As  Harran  and  his  father  drove  along  the  road  toward 
Annixter's  ranch  house,  Magnus  asked  about  what  had 
happened  during  his  absence. 

He  inquired  after  his  wife  and  the  ranch,  commenting 
upon  the  work  on  the  irrigating  ditch.  Harran  gave  him 
the  news  of  the  past  week,  Dyke's  discharge,  his  resolve 
to  raise  a  crop  of  hops ;  Vanamee's  return,  the  killing  of 
the  sheep,  and  Hooven's  petition  to  remain  upon  the 


74  The  Octopus 

ranch  as  Magnus's  tenant.  It  needed  only  Harran's  rec- 
ommendation that  the  German  should  remain  to  have 
Magnus  consent  upon  the  instant. 

"  You  know  more  about  it  than  I,  boy,"  he  said,  "  and 
whatever  you  think  is  wise  shall  be  done." 

Harran  touched  the  bays  with  the  whip,  urging  them 
to  their  briskest  pace.  They  were  not  yet  at  Annixter's 
and  he  was  anxious  to  get  back  to  the  ranch  house  to 
supervise  the  blue-stoning  of  his  seed. 

"  By  the  way,  Governor,"  he  demanded  suddenly, 
"  how  is  Lyman  getting  on?  " 

Lyman,  Magnus's  eldest  son,  had  never  taken  kindly 
toward  ranch  life.  He  resembled  his  mother  more  than 
he  did  Magnus,  and  had  inherited  from  her  a  distaste  for 
agriculture  and  a  tendency  toward  a  profession.  At  a 
time  when  Harran  was  learning  the  rudiments  of  farm- 
ing, Lyman  was  entering  the  State  University,  and, 
graduating  thence,  had  spent  three  years  in  the  study 
of  law.  But  later  on,  traits  that  were  particularly  his 
father's  developed.  Politics  interested  him.  He  told 
himself  he  was  a  born  politician,  was  diplomatic,  ap- 
proachable, had  a  talent  for  intrigue,  a  gift  of  making 
friends  easily  and,  most  indispensable  of  all,  a  veritable 
genius  for  putting  influential  men  under  obligations  to 
himself.  Already  he  had  succeeded  in  gaining  for  him- 
self two  important  offices  in  the  municipal  administration 
of  San  Francisco — where  he  had  his  home — sheriff's  at- 
torney, and,  later  on,  assistant  district  attorney.  But 
with  these  small  achievements  he  was  by  no  means  satis- 
fied. The  largeness  of  his  father's  character,  modified 
in  Lyman  by  a  counter-influence  of  selfishness,  had  pro- 
duced in  him  an  inordinate  ambition.  Where  his  father 
during  his  political  career  had  considered  himself  only 
as  an  exponent  of  principles  he  strove  to  apply,  Lyman 
saw  but  the  office,  his  own  personal  aggrandisement 


A  Story  of  California  75 

He  belonged  to  the  new  school,  wherein  objects  were 
attained  not  by  orations  before  senates  and  assemblies, 
but  by  sessions  of  committees,  caucuses,  compromises 
and  expedients.  His  goal  was  to  be  in  fact  what  Magnus 
was  only  in  name — governor.  Lyman,  with  shut  teeth, 
had  resolved  that  some  day  he  would  sit  in  the  guber- 
natorial chair  in  Sacramento. 

"  Lyman  is  doing  well,"  answered  Magnus.  "  I  could 
wish  he  was  more  pronounced  in  his  convictions,  less 
willing  to  compromise,  but  I  believe  him  to  be  earnest 
and  to  have  a  talent  for  government  and  civics.  His 
ambition  does  him  credit,  and  if  he  occupied  himself  a 
little  more  with  means  and  a  little  less  with  ends,  he 
would,  I  am  sure,  be  the  ideal  servant  of  the  people. 
But  I  am  not  afraid.  The  time  will  come  when  the  State 
will  be  proud  of  him." 

As  Harran  turned  the  team  into  the  driveway  that  led 
up  to  Annixter's  house,  Magnus  remarked: 

"  Harran,  isn't  that  young  Annixter  himself  on  the 
porch?" 

Harran  nodded  and  remarked: 

"  By  the  way,  Governor,  I  wouldn't  seem  too  cordial 
in  your  invitation  to  Annixter.  He  will  be  glad  to  come, 
I  know,  but  if  you  seem  to  want  him  too  much,  it  is  just 
like  his  confounded  obstinacy  to  make  objections." 

"  There  is  something  in  that,"  observed  Magnus,  as 
Harran  drew  up  at  the  porch  of  the  house.  "  He  is  a 
queer,  cross-grained  fellow,  but  in  many  ways  sterling." 

Annixter  was  lying  in  the  hammock  on  the  porch,  pre- 
cisely as  Presley  had  found  him  the  day  before,  reading 
"  David  Copperfield  "  and  stuffing  himself  with  dried 
prunes.  When  he  recognised  Magnus,  however,  he  got 
up,  though  careful  to  give  evidence  of  the  most  poignant 
discomfort.  He  explained  his  difficulty  at  great  length, 
protesting  that  his  stomach  was  no  better  than  a  sponge- 


7  6  The  Octopus 

bag.  Would  Magnus  and  Harran  get  down  and  have 
a  drink?  There  was  whiskey  somewhere  about. 

Magnus,  however,  declined.  He  stated  his  errand, 
asking  Annixter  to  come  over  to  Los  Muertos  that  even- 
ing for  seven  o'clock  dinner.  Osterman  and  Broderson 
would  be  there. 

At  once  Annixter,  even  to  Harran's  surprise,  put  his 
chin  in  the  air,  making  excuses,  fearing  to  compromise 
himself  if  he  accepted  too  readily.  No,  he  did  not  think 
he  could  get  around — was  sure  of  it,  in  fact.  There  were 
certain  businesses  he  had  on  hand  that  evening.  He 
had  practically  made  an  appointment  with  a  man  at 
Bonneville;  then,  too,  he  was  thinking  of  going  up  to 
San  Francisco  to-morrow  and  needed  his  sleep;  would 
go  to  bed  early;  and  besides  all  that,  he  was  a  very  sick 
man;  his  stomach  was  out  of  whack;  if  he  moved  about 
it  brought  the  gripes  back.  No,  they  must  get  along 
without  him. 

Magnus,  knowing  with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  did  not 
urge  the  point,  being  convinced  that  Annixter  would 
argue  over  the  affair  the  rest  of  the  morning.  He  re- 
settled himself  in  the  buggy  and  Harran  gathered  up 
the  reins. 

"  Well,"  he  observed,  "  you  know  your  business  best. 
Come  if  you  can.  We  dine  at  seven." 

"  I  hear  you  are  going  to  farm  the  whole  of  Los  Muer- 
tos this  season,"  remarked  Annixter,  with  a  certain  note 
of  challenge  in  his  voice. 

"  We  are  thinking  of  it,"  replied  Magnus. 

Annixter  grunted  scornfully. 

"  Did  you  get  the  message  I  sent  you  by  Presley?  " 
he  began. 

Tactless,  blunt,  and  direct,  Annixter  was  quite  capable 
of  calling  even  Magnus  a  fool  to  his  face.  But  before 
he  could  proceed,  S.  Behrman  in  his  single  buggy  turned 


A  Story  of  California  77 

into  the  gate,  and  driving  leisurely  up  to  the  porch 
halted  on  the  other  side  of  Magnus's  team. 

"  Good-morning,  gentlemen,"  he  remarked,  nodding 
to  the  two  Derricks  as  though  he  had  not  seen  them 
earlier  in  the  day.  "  Mr.  Annixter,  how  do  you  do?  " 

"What  in  hell  do  you  want?"  demanded  Annixter 
with  a  stare. 

S.  Behrman  hiccoughed  slightly  and  passed  a  fat  hand 
over  his  waistcoat. 

"  Why,  not  very  much,  Mr.  Annixter,"  he  replied, 
ignoring  the  belligerency  in  the  young  ranchman's  voice, 
"  but  I  will  have  to  lodge  a  protest  against  you,  Mr. 
Annixter,  in  the  matter  of  keeping  your  line  fence  in 
repair.  The  sheep  were  all  over  the  track  last  night, 
this  side  the  Long  Trestle,  and  I  am  afraid  they  have  seri- 
ously disturbed  our  ballast  along^  there.  We — the  rail- 
road— can't  fence  along  our  right  of  way.  The  farmers 
have  the  prescriptive  right  of  that,  so  we  have  to  look 
to  you  to  keep  your  fence  in  repair.  I  am  sorry,  but  I 
shall  have  to  protest " 

Annixter  returned  to  the  hammock  and  stretched  him- 
self out  in  it  to  his  full  length,  remarking  tranquilly: 

"Go  to  the  devil!" 

"  It  is  as  much  to  your  interest  as  to  ours  that  the 
safety  of  the  public " 

"  You  heard  what  I  said.     Go  to  the  devil!  " 

"  That  all  may  show  obstinacy,  Mr.  Annixter,  but " 

Suddenly  Annixter  jumped  up  again  and  came  to  the 
edge  of  the  porch;  his  face  flamed  scarlet  to  the  roots  of 
his  stiff  yellow  hair.  He  thrust  out  his  jaw  aggressively, 
clenching  his  teeth. 

"  You"  he  vociferated,  "  I'll  tell  you  what  you  are. 
You're  a — a — a  pip!  " 

To  his  mind  it  was  the  last  insult,  the  most  outrageous 
calumny.  He  had  no  worse  epithet  at  his  command. 


78  The  Octopus 

" may  show  obstinacy,"  pursued  S.  Behrman,  bent 

upon  finishing  the  phrase,  "  but  it  don't  show  common 
sense." 

"  I'll  mend  my  fence,  and  then,  again,  maybe  I 
won't  mend  my  fence,"  shouted  Annixter.  "  I  know 
what  you  mean — that  wild  engine  last  night.  Well, 
you've  no  right  to  run  at  that  speed  in  the  town  lim- 
its." 

"  How  the  town  limits?  The  sheep  were  this  side  the 
Long  Trestle." 

"  Well,  that's  in  the  town  limits  of  Guadalajara." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Annixter,  the  Long  Trestle  is  a  goo'd  two 
miles  out  of  Guadalajara. 

Annixter  squared  himself,  leaping  to  the  chance  of  an 
argument. 

"  Two  miles !  It's  not  a  mile  and  a  quarter.  No,  it's 
not  a  mile.  I'll  leave  it  to  Magnus  here." 

"  Oh,  I  know  nothing  about  it,"  declared  Magnus,  re- 
fusing to  be  involved. 

"  Yes,  you  do.  Yes,  you  do,  too.  Any  fool  knows 
how  far  it  is  from  Guadalajara  to  the  Long  Trestle.  It's 
about  five-eighths  of  a  mile." 

"  From  the  depot  of  the  town,"  remarked  S.  Behrman 
placidly,  "  to  the  head  of  the  Long  Trestle  is  about  two 
miles." 

"  That's  a  lie  and  you  know  it's  a  lie,"  shouted  the 
other,  furious  at  S.  Behrman's  calmness,  "  and  I  can 
prove  it's  a  lie.  I've  walked  that  distance  on  the  Upper 
Road,  and  I  know  just  how  fast  I  walk,  and  if  I  can  walk 
four  miles  in  one  hour " 

Magnus  and  Harran  drove  on,  leaving  Annixter  try- 
ing to  draw  S.  Behrman  into  a  wrangle. 

When  at  length  S.  Behrman  as  well  took  himself  away, 
Annixter  returned  to  his  hammock,  finished  the  rest  of 
his  prunes  and  read  another  chapter  of  "  Copperfield." 


A  Story  of  California  79 

Then  he  put  the  book,  open,  over  his  face  and  went  to 
sleep. 

An  hour  later,  toward  noon,  his  own  terrific  snoring 
woke  him  up  suddenly,  and  he  sat  up,  rubbing  his  face 
and  blinking  at  the  sunlight.  There  was  a  bad  taste  in  his 
mouth  from  sleeping  with  it  wide  open,  and  going  into 
the  dining-room  of  the  house,  he  mixed  himself  a  drink 
of  whiskey  and  soda  and  swallowed  it  in  three  great 
gulps.  He  told  himself  that  he  felt  not  only  better  but 
hungry,  and  pressed  an  electric  button  in  the  wall  near 
the  sideboard  three  times  to  let  the  kitchen — situated 
in  a  separate  building  near  the  ranch  house — know  that 
he  was  ready  for  his  dinner.  As  he  did  so,  an  idea  oc- 
curred to  him.  He  wondered  if  Hilma  Tree  would 
bring  up  his  dinner  and  wait  on  the  table  while  he 
ate  it. 

In  connection  with  his  ranch,  Annixter  ran  a  dairy 
farm  on  a  very  small  scale,  making  just  enough  butter 
and  cheese  for  the  consumption  of  the  ranch's  personnel. 
Old  man  Tree,  his  wife,  and  his  daughter  Hilma  looked 
after  the  dairy.  But  there  was  not  always  work  enough 
to  keep  the  three  of  them  occupied  and  Hilma  at  times 
made  herself  useful  in  other  ways.  As  often  as  not  she 
lent  a  hand  in  the  kitchen,  and  two  or  three  times  a  week 
she  took  her  mother's  place  in  looking  after  Annixter's 
house,  making  the  beds,  putting  his  room  to  rights, 
bringing  his  meals  up  from  the  kitchen.  For  the  last 
summer  she  had  been  away  visiting  with  relatives  in  one 
of  the  towns  on  the  coast.  But  the  week  previous  to 
this  she  had  returned  and  Annixter  had  come  upon  her 
suddenly  one  day  in  the  dairy,  making  cheese,  the  sleeves 
of  her  crisp  blue  shirt  waist  rolled  back  to  her  very 
shoulders.  Annixter  had  carried  away  with  him  a  clear- 
cut  recollection  of  these  smooth  white  arms  of  hers, 
bare  to  the  shoulder,  very  round  and  cool  and  fresh.  He 


8o  The  Octopus 

would  not  have  believed  that  a  girl  so  young  should 
have  had  arms  so  big  and  perfect.  To  his  surprise  he 
found  himself  thinking  of  her  after  he  had  gone  to  bed 
that  night,  and  in  the  morning  when  he  woke  he  was 
bothered  to  know  whether  he  had  dreamed  about 
Hilma' s  fine  white  arms  over  night.  Then  abruptly  he 
had  lost  patience  with  himself  for  being  so  occupied  with 
the  subject,  raging  and  furious  with  all  the  breed  of  fee- 
males — a  fine  way  for  a  man  to  waste  his  time.  He 
had  had  his  experience  with  the  timid  little  creature  in 
the  glove-cleaning  establishment  in  Sacramento.  That 
was  enough.  Feemales!  Rot!  None  of  them  in  his, 
thank  you.  He  had  seen  Hilma  Tree  give  him  a  look  in 
the  dairy.  Aha,  he  saw  through  her!  She  was  trying 
to  get  a  hold  on  him,  was  she?  He  would  show  her. 
Wait  till  he  saw -her  again.  He  would  send  her  about 
her  business  in  a  hurry.  He  resolved  upon  a  terrible 
demeanour  in  the  presence  of  the  dairy  girl — a  great 
show  of  indifference,  a  fierce  masculine  nonchalance;  and 
when,  the  next  morning,  she  brought  him  his  breakfast, 
he  had  been  smitten  dumb  as  soon  as  she  entered  the 
room,  glueing  his  eyes  upon  his  plate,  his  elbows  close 
to  his  side,  awkward,  clumsy,  overwhelmed  with  con- 
straint. 

While  true  to  his  convictions  as  a  woman-hater  and 
genuinely  despising  Hilma  both  as  a  girl  and  as  an  in- 
ferior, the  idea  of  her  worried  him.  Most  of  all,  he  was 
angry  with  himself  because  of  his  inane  sheepishness 
when  she  was  about.  He  at  first  had  told  himself  that 
he  was  a  fool  not  to  be  able  to  ignore  her  existence  as 
hitherto,  and  then  that  he  was  a  greater  fool  not  to  take 
advantage  of  his  position.  Certainly  he  had  not  the 
remotest  idea  of  any  affection,  but  Hilma  was  a  fine 
looking  girl.  He  imagined  an  affair  with  her. 

As  he  reflected  upon  the  matter  now,  scowling  ab- 


A  Story  of  California  81 

stractedly  at  the  button  of  the  electric  bell,  turning  the 
whole  business  over  in  his  mind,  he  remembered  that 
to-day  was  butter-making  day  and  that  Mrs.  Tree 
would  be  occupied  in  the  dairy.  That  meant  that  Hilma 
would  take  her  place.  He  turned  to  the  mirror  of  the 
sideboard,  scrutinising  his  reflection  with  grim  disfavour. 
After  a  moment,  rubbing  the  roughened  surface  of  his 
chin  the  wrong  way,  he  muttered  to  his  image  in  the 
glass : 

"  What  a  mug !  Good  Lord !  what  a  looking  mug !  " 
Then,  after  a  moment's  silence,  "  Wonder  if  that  fool 
feemale  will  be  up  here  to-day." 

He  crossed  over  into  his  bedroom  and  peeped  around 
the  edge  of  the  lowered  curtain.  The  window  looked 
out  upon  the  skeleton-like  tower  of  the  artesian  well  and 
the  cook-house  and  dairy-house  close  beside  it.  As  he 
watched,  he  saw  Hilma  come  out  from  the  cook-house 
and  hurry  across  toward  the  kitchen.  Evidently,  she 
was  going  to  see  about  his  dinner.  But  as  she  passed  by 
the  artesian  well,  she  met  young  Delaney,  one  of  Annix- 
ter's  hands,  coming  up  the  trail  by  the  irrigating  ditch, 
leading  his  horse  toward  the  stables,  a  great  coil  of 
barbed  wire  in  his  gloved  hands  and  a  pair  of  nippers 
thrust  into  his  belt.  No  doubt,  he  had  been  mending  the 
break  in  the  line  fence  by  the  Long  Trestle.  Annixter 
saw  him  take  off  his  wide-brimmed  hat  as  he  met  Hilma, 
and  the  two  stood  there  for  some  moments  talking  to- 
gether. Annixter  even  heard  Hilma  laughing  very  gayly 
at  something  Delaney  was  saying.  She  patted  his  horse's 
neck  affectionately,  and  Delaney,  drawing  the  nippers 
from  his  belt,  made  as  if  to  pinch  her  arm  with  them. 
She  caught  at  his  wrist  and  pushed  him  away,  laughing 
again.  To  Annixter's  mind  the  pair  seemed  astonish- 
ingly intimate.  Brusquely  his  anger  flamed  up. 

Ak,  that  was  it,  was  it?  Delaney  and  Hilma  had  an 
6 


52  The  Octopus 

understanding  between  themselves.  They  carried  on 
their  affair  right  out  there  in  the  open,  under  his  very 
eyes.  It  was  absolutely  disgusting.  Had  they  no  sense 
of  decency,  those  two?  Well,  this  ended  it.  He  would 
stop  that  sort  of  thing  short  off;  none  of  that  on  his  ranch 
if  he  knew  it.  No,  sir.  He  would  pack  that  girl  off  be- 
fore he  was  a  day  older.  He  wouldn't  have  that  kind 
about  the  place.  Not  much!  She'd  have  to  get  out. 
He  would  talk  to  old  man  Tree  about  it  this  afternoon. 
Whatever  happened,  he  insisted  upon  morality. 

"  And  my  dinner!  "  he  suddenly  exclaimed.  "  I've  got 
to  wait  and  go  hungry — and  maybe  get  sick  again — 
while  they  carry  on  their  disgusting  love-making." 

He  turned  about  on  the  instant,  and  striding  over  to 
the  electric  bell,  rang  it  again  with  all  his  might. 

"  When  that  feemale  gets  up  here,"  he  declared,  "  I'll 
just  find  out  why  I've  got  to  wait  like  this.  I'll  take  her 
down,  to  the  Queen's  taste.  I'm  lenient  enough,  Lord 
knows,  but  I  don't  propose  to  be  imposed  upon  all  the 
time." 

A  few  moments  later,  while  Annixter  was  pretending 
to  read  the  county  newspaper  by  the  window  in  the 
dining-room,  Hilma  came  in  to  set  the  table.  At  the 
time  Annixter  had  his  feet  cocked  on  the  window  ledge 
and  was  smoking  a  cigar,  but  as  soon  as  she  entered  the 
room  he — without  premeditation — brought  his  feet 
down  to  the  floor  and  crushed  out  the  lighted  tip  of  his 
cigar  under  the  window  ledge.  Over  the  top  of  the 
paper  he  glanced  at  her  covertly  from  time  to  time. 

Though  Hilma  was  only  nineteen  years  old,  she  was 
a  large  girl  with  all  the  development  of  a  much  older 
woman.  There  was  a  certain  generous  amplitude  to  the 
full,  round  curves  of  her  hips  and  shoulders  that  sug- 
gested the  precocious  maturity  of  a  healthy,  vigorous 
animal  life  passed  under  the  hot  southern  sun  of  a  half- 


A  Story  of  California  83 

tropical  country.  She  was,  one  knew  at  a  glance,  warm- 
blooded, full-blooded,  with  an  even,  comfortable  balance 
of  temperament.  Her  neck  was  thick,  and  sloped  to  her 
shoulders,  with  full,  beautiful  curves,  and  under  her  chin 
and  under  her  ears  the  flesh  was  as  white  and  smooth  as 
floss  satin,  shading  exquisitely  to  a  faint  delicate  brown 
on  her  nape  at  the  roots  of  her  hair.  Her  throat  rounded 
to  meet  her  chin  and  cheek,  with  a  soft  swell  of  the  skin, 
tinted  pale  amber  in  the  shadows,  but  blending  by  barely 
perceptible  gradations  to  the  sweet,  warm  flush  of  her 
cheek.  This  colour  on  her  temples  was  just  touched 
with  a  certain  blueness  where  the  flesh  was  thin  over  the 
fine  veining  underneath.  Her  eyes  were  light  brown, 
and  so  wide  open  that  on  the  slightest  provocation  the 
ful  disc  of  the  pupil  was  disclosed;  the  lids — just  a  frac- 
tion of  a  shade  darker  than  the  hue  of  her  face: — were 
edged  with  lashes  that  were  almost  black.  While  these 
lashes  were  not  long,  they  were  thick  and  rimmed  her 
eyes  with  a  fine,  thin  line.  Her  mouth  was  rather  large, 
the  lips  shut  tight,  and  nothing  could  have  been  more 
graceful,  more  charming  than  the  outline  of  these  full 
lips  of  hers,  and  her  round  white  chin,  modulating  down- 
ward with  a  certain  delicious  roundness  to  her  neck,  her 
throat  and  the  sweet  feminine  amplitude  of  her  breast. 
The  slightest  movement  of  her  head  and  shoulders  sent 
a  gentle  undulation  through  all  this  beauty  of  soft  out- 
lines and  smooth  surfaces,  the  delicate  amber  shadows 
deepening  or  fading  or  losing  themselves  imperceptibly 
in  the  pretty  rose-colour  of  her  cheeks,  or  the  dark, 
warm-tinted  shadow  of  her  thick  brown  hair. 

Her  hair  seemed  almost  to  have  a  life  of  its  own, 
almost  Medusa-like,  thick,  glossy  and  moist,  lying  in 
heavy,  sweet-smelling  masses  over  her  forehead,  over 
her  small  ears  with  their  pink  lobes,  and  far  down  upon 
her  nape.  Deep  in  between  the  coils  and  braids  it  was 


84  The  Octopus 

of  a  bitumen  brownness,  but  in  the  sunlight  it  vibrated 
with  a  sheen  like  tarnished  gold. 

Like  most  large  girls,  her  movements  were  not  hur- 
ried, and  this  indefinite  deliberateness  of  gesture,  this 
slow  grace,  this  certain  ease  of  attitude,  was  a  charm 
that  was  all  her  own. 

But  Hilma's  greatest  charm  of  all  was  her  simplicity — 
a  simplicity  that  was  not  only  in  the  calm  regularity  of 
her  face,  with  its  statuesque  evenness  of  contour,  its 
broad  surface  of  cheek  and  forehead  and  the  masses  of 
her  straight  smooth  hair,  but  was  apparent  as  well  in 
the  long  line  of  her  carriage,  from  her  foot  to  her  waist 
and  the  single  deep  swell  from  her  waist  to  her  shoulder. 
Almost  unconsciously  she  dressed  in  harmony  with  this 
note  of  simplicity,  and  on  this  occasion  wore  a  skirt  of 
plain  dark  blue  calico  and  a  white  shirt  waist  crisp  from 
the  laundry. 

And  yet,  for  all  the  dignity  of  this  rigourous  simplicity, 
there  were  about  Hilma  small  contradictory  suggestions 
of  feminine  daintiness,  charming  beyond  words.  Even 
Annixter  could  not  help  noticing  that  her  feet  were 
narrow  and  slender,  and  that  the  little  steel  buckles  of 
her  low  shoes  were  polished  bright,  and  that  her  finger- 
tips and  nails  were  of  a  fine  rosy  pink. 

He  found  himself  wondering  how  it  was  that  a  girl  in 
Hilma's  position  should  be  able  to  keep  herself  so  pretty, 
so  trim,  so  clean  and  feminine,  but  he  reflected  that  her 
work  was  chiefly  in  the  dairy,  and  even  there  of  the  light- 
est order.  She  was  on  the  ranch  more  for  the  sake  of 
being  with  her  parents  than  from  any  necessity  of  em- 
ployment. Vaguely  he  seemed  to  understand  that,  in 
that  great  new  land  of  the  West,  in  the  open-air,  healthy 
life  of  the  ranches,  where  the  conditions  of  earning  a  live- 
lihood were  of  the  easiest,  refinement  among  the 
younger  women  was  easily  to  be  found — not  the  refine- 


A  Story  of  California  83 

ment  of  education,  nor  culture,  but  the  natural,  intuitive 
refinement  of  the  woman,  not  as  yet  defiled  and  crushed 
out  by  the  sordid,  strenuous  life-struggle  of  over-popu- 
lated districts.  It  was  the  original,  intended  and  natural 
delicacy  of  an  elemental  existence,  close  to  nature,  close 
to  life,  close  to  the  great,  kindly  earth. 

As  Hilma  laid  the  table-spread,  her  arms  opened  to 
their  widest  reach,  the  white  cloth  setting  a  little  glisten 
of  reflected  light  underneath  the  chin,  Annixter  stirred 
in  his  place  uneasily. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it,  Miss  Hilma?"  he  remarked,  for 
the  sake  of  saying  something.  "  Good-morning.  How 
do  you  do?" 

"  Good-morning,  sir,"  she  answered,  looking  up,  rest- 
ing for  a  moment  on  her  outspread  palms.  "  I  hope  you 
are  better." 

Her  voice  was  low  in  pitch  and  of  a  velvety  huskiness, 
seeming  to  come  more  from  her  chest  than  from  her 
throat. 

"  Well,  I'm  some  better,"  growled  Annixter.  Then 
suddenly  he  demanded,  "  Where's  that  dog?  " 

A  decrepit  Irish  setter  sometimes  made  his  appearance 
in  and  about  the  ranch  house,  sleeping  under  the  bed 
and  eating  when  anyone  about  the  place  thought  to  give 
him  a  plate  of  bread. 

Annixter  had  no  particular  interest  in  the  dog.  For 
weeks  at  a  time  he  ignored  its  existence.  It  was  not 
his  dog.  But  to-day  it  seemed  as  if  he  could  not  let  the 
subject  rest.  For  no  reason  that  he  could  explain  even 
to  himself,  he  recurred  to  it  continually.  He  questioned 
Hilma  minutely  all  about  the  dog.  Who  owned  him? 
How  old  did  she  think  he  was?  Did  she  imagine  the  dog 
was  sick?  Where  had  he  got  to?  Maybe  he  had 
crawled  off  to  die  somewhere.  He  recurred  to  the  sub- 
ject all  through  the  meal;  apparently,  he  could  talk  of 


86  The  Octopus 

nothing  else,  and  as  she  finally  went  away  after  clearing 
off  the  table,  he  went  onto  the  porch  and  called  after 
her: 

"  Say,  Miss  Hilma." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  If  that  dog  turns  up  again  you  let  me  know." 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

Annixter  returned  to  the  dining-room  and  sat  down 
in  the  chair  he  had  just  vacated. 

"  To  hell  with  the  dog!  "  he  muttered,  enraged,  he 
could  not  tell  why. 

When  at  length  he  allowed  his  attention  to  wander 
from  Hilma  Tree,  he  found  that  he  had  been  staring 
fixedly  at  a  thermometer  upon  the  wall  opposite,  and 
this  made  him  think  that  it  had  long  been  his  intention 
to  buy  a  fine  barometer,  an  instrument  that  could  be 
accurately  depended  on.  But  the  barometer  suggested 
the  present  condition  of  the  weather  and  the  likelihood  of 
rain.  In  such  case,  much  was  to  be  done  in  the  way  of 
getting  the  seed  ready  and  overhauling  his  ploughs  and 
drills.  He  had  not  been  away  from  the  house  in  two 
days.  It  was  time  to  be  up  and  doing.  He  determined 
to  put  in  the  afternoon  "  taking  a  look  around,"  and  have 
a  late  supper.  He  would  not  go  to  Los  Muertos;  he 
would  ignore  Magnus  Derrick's  invitation.  Possibly, 
though,  it  might  be  well  to  run  over  and  see  what  was 
up. 

"  If  I  do,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I'll  ride  the  buckskin." 

The  buckskin  was  a  half-broken  broncho  that  fought 
like  a  fiend  under  the  saddle  until  the  quirt  and  spur 
brought  her  to  her  senses.  But  Annixter  remembered 
that  the  Trees'  cottage,  next  the  dairy-house,  looked  out 
upon  the  stables,  and  perhaps  Hilma  would  see  him  while 
he  was  mounting  the  horse  and  be  impressed  with  his 
courage. 


A  Story  of  California  87 

"  Huh!  "  grunted  Annixter  under  his  breath,  "I  should 
like  to  see  that  fool  Delaney  try  to  bust  that  bronch. 
That's  what  I'd  like  to  see." 

However,  as  Annixter  stepped  from  the  porch  of  the 
ranch  house,  he  was  surprised  to  notice  a  grey  haze  over 
all  the  sky;  the  sunlight  was  gone;  there  was  a  sense  of 
coolness  in  the  air;  the  weather-vane  on  the  barn — a  fine 
golden  trotting  horse  with  flamboyant  mane  and  tail — 
was  veering  in  a  southwest  wind.  Evidently  the  ex- 
pected rain  was  close  at  hand. 

Annixter  crossed  over  to  the  stables  reflecting  that 
he  could  ride  the  buckskin  to  the  Trees'  cottage  and 
tell  Hilma  that  he  would  not  be  home  to  supper.  The 
conference  at  Los  Muertos  would  be  an  admirable  ex- 
cuse for  this,  and  upon  the  spot  he  resolved  to  go  over 
to  the  Derrick  ranch  house,  after  all. 

As  he  passed  the  Trees'  cottage,  he  observed  with 
satisfaction  that  Hilma  was  going  to  and  fro  in  the  front 
room.  If  he  busted  the  buckskin  in  the  yard  before 
the  stable  she  could  not  help  but  see.  Annixter  found 
the  stableman  in  the  back  of  the  barn  greasing  the  axles 
of  the  buggy,  and  ordered  him  to  put  the  saddle  on  the 
buckskin. 

"  Why,  I  don't  think  she's  here,  sir,"  answered  the 
stableman,  glancing  into  the  stalls.  "  No,  I  remember 
now.  Delaney  took  her  out  just  after  dinner.  His 
other  horse  went  lame  and  he  wanted  to  go  down  by 
the  Long  Trestle  to  mend  the  fence.  He  started  out, 
but  had  to  come  back." 

"  Oh,  Delaney  got  her,  did  he?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  He  had  a  circus  with  her,  but  he  busted 
her  right  enough.  When  it  comes  to  horse,  Delaney 
can  wipe  the  eye  of  any  cow-puncher  in  the  county,  I 
guess." 

"He  can,  can  he?"  observed  Annixter.    Then  after 


88  The  Octopus 

a  silence,  "  Well,  all  right,  Billy;  put  my  saddle  on  what- 
ever you've  got  here.  I'm  going  over  to  Los  Muertos 
this  afternoon." 

"  Want  to  look  out  for  the  rain,  Mr.  Annixter,"  re- 
marked Billy.  "  Guess  we'll  have  rain  before  night." 

"  I'll  take  a  rubber  coat,"  answered  Annixter.  "  Bring 
the  horse  up  to  the  ranch  house  when  you're  ready." 

Annixter  returned  to  the  house  to  look  for  his  rubber 
coat  in  deep  disgust,  not  permitting  himself  to  glance 
toward  the  dairy-house  and  the  Trees'  cottage.  But 
as  he  reached  the  porch  he  heard  the  telephone  ringing 
his  call.  It  was  Presley,  who  rang  up  from  Los  Muer- 
tos. He  had  heard  from  Harran  that  Annixter  was, 
perhaps,  coming  over  that  evening.  If  he  came,  would 
he  mind  bringing  over  his — Presley's — bicycle.  He  had 
left  it  at  the  Quien  Sabe  ranch  the  day  before  and  had 
forgotten  to  come  back  that  way  for  it. 

"  Well,"  objected  Annixter,  a  surly  note  in  his  voice, 
"  I  was  going  to  ride  over." 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  then,  "  returned  Presley  easily.  "  I 
was  to  blame  for  forgetting  it.  Don't  bother  about  it. 
I'll  come  over  some  of  these  days  and  get  it  myself." 

Annixter  hung  up  the  transmitter  with  a  vehement 
wrench  and  stamped  out  of  the  room,  banging  the  door. 
He  found  his  rubber  coat  hanging  in  the  hallway  and 
swung  into  it  with  a  fierce  movement  of  the  shoulders  that 
all  but  started  the  seams.  Everything  seemed  to  con- 
spire to  thwart  him.  It  was  just  like  that  absent-minded, 
crazy  poet,  Presley,  to  forget  his  wheel.  Well,  he  could 
come  after  it  himself.  He,  Annixter,  would  ride  some 
horse,  anyhow.  When  he  came  out  upon  the  porch  he 
saw  the  wheel  leaning  against  the  fence  where  Presley 
had  left  it.  If  it  stayed  there  much  longer  the  rain  would 
catch  it.  Annixter  ripped  out  an  oath.  At  every  mo- 
ment his  ill-humour  was  increasing.  Yet,  for  all  that,  he 


A  Story  of  California  89 

went  back  to  the  stable,  pushing  the  bicycle  before  him, 
and  countermanded  his  order,  directing  the  stableman 
to  get  the  buggy  ready.  He  himself  carefully  stowed 
Presley's  bicycle  under  the  seat,  covering  it  with  a  couple 
of  empty  sacks  and  a  tarpaulin  carriage  cover. 

While  he  was  doing  this,  the  stableman  uttered  an  ex- 
clamation and  paused  in  the  act  of  backing  the  horse 
into  the  shafts,  holding  up  a  hand,  listening. 

From  the  hollow  roof  of  the  barn  and  from  the  thick 
velvet-like  padding  of  dust  over  the  ground  outside,  and 
from  among  the  leaves  of  the  few  nearby  trees  and  plants 
there  came  a  vast,  monotonous  murmur  that  seemed  to 
issue  from  all  quarters  of  the  horizon  at  once,  a  pro- 
longed and  subdued  rustling  sound,  steady,  even,  per- 
sistent. 

"  There's  your  rain,"  announced  the  stableman.  "  The 
first  of  the  season." 

"  And  I  got  to  be  out  in  it,"  fumed  Annixter,  "  and 
I  suppose  those  swine  will  quit  work  on  the  big  barn 
now." 

When  the  buggy  was  finally  ready,  he  put  on  his  rubber 
coat,  climbed  in,  and  without  waiting  for  the  stableman 
to  raise  the  top,  drove  out  into  the  rain,  a  new-lit  cigar  in 
his  teeth.  As  he  passed  the  dairy-house,  he  saw  Hilma 
standing  in  the  doorway,  holding  out  her  hand  to  the 
rain,  her  face  turned  upward  toward  the  grey  sky, 
amused  and  interested  at  this  first  shower  of  the  wet 
season.  She  was  so  absorbed  that  she  did  not  see  An- 
nixter, and  his  clumsy  nod  in  her  direction  passed  un- 
noticed. 

"  She  did  it  on  purpose,"  Annixter  told  himself,  chew- 
ing fiercely  on  his  cigar.  "  Cuts  me  now,  hey?  Well, 
this  does  settle  it.  She  leaves  this  ranch  before  I'm  a 
day  older." 

He  decided  that  he  would  put  off  his  tour  of  inspection 


9O  The  Octopus 

till  the  next  day.  Travelling  in  the  buggy  as  he  did,  he 
must  keep  to  the  road  which  led  to  Derrick's,  in  very 
roundabout  fashion,  by  way  of  Guadalajara.  This  rain 
would  reduce  the  thick  dust  of  the  road  to  two  feet  of 
viscid  mud.  It  would  take  him  quite  three  hours  to 
reach  the  ranch  house  on  Los  Muertos.  He  thought  of 
Delaney  and  the  buckskin  and  ground  his  teeth.  And 
all  this  trouble,  if  you  please,  because  of  a  fool  feemale 
girl.  A  fine  way  for  him  to  waste  his  time.  Well,  now 
he  was  done  with  it.  His  decision  was  taken  now.  She 
should  pack. 

Steadily  the  rain  increased.  There  was  no  wind.  The 
thick  veil  of  wet  descended  straight  from  sky  to  earth, 
blurring  distant  outlines,  spreading  a  vast  sheen  of  grey 
over  all  the  landscape.  Its  volume  became  greater,  the 
prolonged  murmuring  note  took  on  a  deeper  tone.  At 
the  gate  to  the  road  which  led  across  Dyke's  hop-fields 
toward  Guadalajara,  Annixter  was  obliged  to  descend 
and  raise  the  top  of  the  buggy.  In  doing  so  he  caught 
the  flesh  of  his  hand  in  the  joint  of  the  iron  elbow  that 
supported  the  top  and  pinched  it  cruelly.  It  was  the  last 
misery,  the  culmination  of  a  long  train  of  wretchedness. 
On  the  instant  he  hated  Hilma  Tree  so  fiercely  that  his 
sharply  set  teeth  all  but  bit  his  cigar  in  two. 

While  he  was  grabbing  and  wrenching  at  the  buggy- 
top,  the  water  from  his  hat  brim  dripping  down  upon  his 
nose,  the  horse,  restive  under  the  drench  of  the  rain, 
moved  uneasily. 

"  Yah-h-h  you!"  he  shouted,  inarticulate  with  exas- 
peration. "  You — you — Gor-r-r,  wait  till  I  get  hold  of 
you.  Whoa,  you!" 

But  there  was  an  interruption.  Delaney,  riding  the 
buckskin,  came  around  a  bend  in  the  road  at  a  slow 
trot  and  Annixter,  getting  into  the  buggy  again,  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  him. 


A  Story  of  California  91 

"  Why,  hello,  Mr.  Annixter,"  said  he,  pulling  up. 
"  Kind  of  sort  of  wet,  isn't  it?  " 

Annixter,  his  face  suddenly  scarlet,  sat  back  in  his 
place  abruptly,  exclaiming: 

"  Oh — oh,  there  you  are,  are  you?  " 

"  I've  been  down  there,"  explained  Delaney,  with  a 
motion  of  his  head  toward  the  railroad,  "  to  mend  that 
break  in  the  fence  by  the  Long  Trestle  and  I  thought 
while  I  was  about  it  I'd  follow  down  along  the  fence 
toward  Guadalajara  to  see  if  there  were  any  more  breaks. 
But  I  guess  it's  all  right." 

"  Oh,  you  guess  it's  all  right,  do  you?  "  observed  An- 
nixter through  his  teeth. 

"  Why — why — yes,"  returned  the  other,  bewildered  at 
the  truculent  ring  in  Annixter's  voice.  "  I  mended  that 
break  by  the  Long  Trestle  just  now  and " 

"  Well,  why  didn't  you  mend  it  a  week  ago?  "  shouted 
Annixter  wrathfully.  "  I've  been  looking  for  you  all  the 
morning,  I  have,  and  who  told  you  you  could  take  that 
buckskin?  And  the  sheep  were  all  over  the  right  of 
way  last  night  because  of  that  break,  and  here  that  filthy 
pip,  S.  Behrman,  comes  down  here  this  morning  and 
wants  to  make  trouble  for  me."  Suddenly  he  cried  out, 
"  What  do  I  feed  you  for?  What  do  I  keep  you  around 
here  for?  Think  it's  just  to  fatten  up  your  carcass,  hey?  '' 

"  Why,  Mr.  Annixter "  began  Delaney. 

"  And  don't  talk  to  me,"  vociferated  the  other,  exciting 
himself  with  his  own  noise.  "Don't  you  say  a  word  to 
me  even  to  apologise.  If  I've  spoken  to  you  once  about 
that  break,  I've  spoken  fifty  times." 

"  Why,  sir,"  declared  Delaney,  beginning  to  get  in- 
dignant, "  the  sheep  did  it  themselves  last  night." 

"  I  told  you  not  to  talk  to  me,"  clamoured  Annixter. 

"  But,  say,  look  here " 

"  Get  off  the  ranch.     You  get  off  the  ranch.     And 


92  The  Octopus 

taking  that  buckskin  against  my  express  orders.  I 
won't  have  your  kind  about  the  place,  not  much.  I'm 
easy-going  enough,  Lord  knows,  but  I  don't  propose  to 
be  imposed  on  all  the  time.  Pack  off,  you  understand, 
and  do  it  lively.  Go  to  the  foreman  and  tell  him  I  told 
him  to  pay  you  off  and  then  clear  out.  And,  you  hear 
me"  he  concluded,  with  a  menacing  outthrust  of  his 
lower  jaw,  "  you  hear  me,  if  I  catch  you  hanging  around 
the  ranch  house  after  this,  or  if  I  so  much  as  see  you  on 
Quien  Sabe,  I'll  show  you  the  way  off  of  it,  my  friend,  at 
the  toe  of  my  boot.  Now,  then,  get  out  of  the  way  and 
let  me  pass." 

Angry  beyond  the  power  of  retort,  Delaney  drove  the 
spurs  into  the  buckskin  and  passed  the  buggy  in  a  single 
bound.  Annixter  gathered  up  the  reins  and  drove  on, 
muttering  to  himself,  and  occasionally  looking  back  to 
observe  the  buckskin  flying  toward  the  ranch  house  in 
a  spattering  shower  of  mud,  Delaney  urging  her  on,  his 
head  bent  down  against  the  falling  rain. 

'  Huh,"  grunted  Annixter  with  grim  satisfaction,  a 
certain  sense  of  good  humour  at  length  returning  to  him, 
"  that  just  about  takes  the  saleratus  out  of  your  dough, 
my  friend." 

A  little  farther  on,  Annixter  got  out  of  the  buggy  a 
second  time  to  open  another  gate  that  let  him  out  upon 
the  Upper  Road,  not  far  distant  from  Guadalajara.  It 
was  the  road  that  connected  that  town  with  Bonneville, 
and  that  ran  parallel  with  the  railroad  tracks.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  track  he  could  see  the  infinite  extension 
of  the  brown,  bare  land  of  Los  Muertos,  turning  now  to 
a  soft,  moist  welter  of  fertility  under  the  insistent  caress- 
ing of  the  rain.  The  hard,  sun-baked  clods  were  de- 
composing, the  crevices  between  drinking  the  wet  with 
an  eager,  sucking  noise.  But  the  prospect  was  dreary; 
the  distant  horizons  were  blotted  under  drifting  mists 


A  Story  of  California  93 

of  rain;  the  eternal  monotony  of  the  earth  lay  open  to 
the  sombre  low  sky  without  a  single  adornment,  without 
a  single  variation  from  its  melancholy  flatness.  Near  at 
hand  the  wires  between  the  telegraph  poles  vibrated  with 
a  faint  humming  under  the  multitudinous  fingering  of 
the  myriad  of  falling  drops,  striking  among  them  and 
dripping  off  steadily  from  one  to  another.  The  poles 
themselves  were  dark  and  swollen  and  glistening  with 
wet,  while  the  little  cones  of  glass  on  the  transverse  bars 
reflected  the  dull  grey  light  of  the  end  of  the  afternoon. 

As  Annixter  was  about  to  drive  on,  a  freight  train 
passed,  coming  from  Guadalajara,  going  northward  to- 
ward Bonneville,  Fresno  and  San  Francisco.  It  was  a 
long  train,  moving  slowly,  methodically,  with  a  measured 
coughing  of  its  locomotive  and  a  rhythmic  cadence  of  its 
trucks  over  the  interstices  of  the  rails.  On  two  or  three 
of  the  flat  cars  near  its  end,  Annixter  plainly  saw  Magnus 
Derrick's  ploughs,  their  bright  coating  of  red  and  green 
paint  setting  a  single  brilliant  note  in  all  this  array  of 
grey  and  brown. 

Annixter  halted,  watching  the  train  file  past,  carrying 
Derrick's  ploughs  away  from  his  ranch,  at  this  very  time 
of  the  first  rain,  when  they  would  be  most  needed.  He 
watched  it,  silent,  thoughtful,  and  without  articulate 
comment.  Even  after  it  passed  he  sat  in  his  place  a  long 
time,  watching  it  lose  itself  slowly  in  the  distance,  its 
prolonged  rumble  diminishing  to  a  faint  murmur.  Soon 
he  heard  the  engine  sounding  its  whistle  for  the  Long 
Trestle. 

But  the  moving  train  no  longer  carried  with  it  that 
impression  of  terror  and  destruction  that  had  so  thrilled 
Presley's  imagination  the  night  before.  It  passed  slowly 
on  its  way  with  a  mournful  roll  of  wheels,  like  the  pass- 
ing of  a  cortege,  like  a  file  of  artillery-caissons  charioting 
dead  bodies;  the  engine's  smoke  enveloping  it  in  a 


94  The  Octopus 

mournful  veil,  leaving  a  sense  of  melancholy  in  its  wake, 
moving  past  there,  lugubrious,  lamentable,  infinitely  sad. 
under  the  grey  sky  and  under  the  grey  mist  of  rain  which 
continued  to  fall  with  a  subdued,  rustling  sound,  steady, 
persistent,  a  vast  monotonous  murmur  that  seemed  to 
come  from  all  quarters  of  the  horizon  at  once. 


Ill 


When  Annixter  arrived  at  the  Los  Muertos  ranch 
house  that  same  evening,  he  found  a  little  group  already 
assembled  in  the  dining-room.  Magnus  Derrick,  wear- 
ing the  frock  coat  of  broadcloth  that  he  had  put  on  for 
the  occasion,  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace.  Har- 
ran  sat  close  at  hand,  one  leg  thrown  over  the  arm  of  his 
chair.  Presley  lounged  on  the  sofa,  in  corduroys  and 
high  laced  boots,  smoking  cigarettes.  Broderson  leaned 
on  his  folded  arms  at  one  corner  of  the  dining  table,  and 
Genslinger,  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  principal  news- 
paper of  the  county,  the  "  Bonneville  Mercury,"  stood 
with  his  hat  and  driving  gloves  under  his  arm,  opposite 
Derrick,  a  half-emptied  glass  of  whiskey  and  water  in  his 
hand. 

As  Annixter  entered  he  heard  Genslinger  observe : 
"  I'll  have  a  leader  in  the  '  Mercury  '  to-morrow  that  will 
interest  you  people.  There's  some  talk  of  your  ranch 
lands  being  graded  in  value  this  winter.  I  suppose  you 
will  all  buy?'' 

In  an  instant  the  editor's  words  had  riveted  upon  him 
the  attention  of  every  man  in  the  room.  Annixter  broke 
the  moment's  silence  that  followed  with  the  remark : 

"  Well,  it's  about  time  they  graded  these  lands  of 
theirs." 

The  question  in  issue  in  Genslinger's  remark  was  of 
the  most  vital  interest  to  the  ranchers  around  Bonneville 
and  Guadalajara.  Neither  Magnus  Derrick,  Broderson,. 
Annixter,  nor  Osterman  actually  owned  all  the  ranches 


96  The  Octopus 

which  they  worked.  As  yet,  the  vast  majority  of  these 
wheat  lands  were  the  property  of  the  P.  and  S.  W.  The 
explanation  of  this  condition  of  affairs  went  back  to  the 
e'arly  history  of  the  Pacific  and  Southwestern,  when,  as 
a  bonus  for  the  construction  of  the  road,  the  national 
government  had  granted  to  the  company  the  odd  num- 
bered sections  of  land  on  either  side  of  the  proposed 
line  of  route  for  a  distance  of  twenty  miles.  Indisputably, 
these  sections  belonged  to  the  P.  and  S.  W.  The  even- 
numbered  sections  being  government  property  could 
be  and  had  been  taken  up  by  the  ranchers,  but  the  rail- 
road sections,  or,  as  they  were  called,  the  "  alternate  sec- 
tions," would  have  to  be  purchased  direct  from  the  rail- 
road itself. 

But  this  had  not  prevented  the  farmers  from  "coming 
in  "  upon  that  part  of  the  San  Joaquin.  Long  before  this 
the  railroad  had  thrown  open  these  lands,  and,  by  means 
of  circulars,  distributed  broadcast  throughout  the  State, 
had  expressly  invited  settlement  thereon.  At  that  time 
patents  had  not  been  issued  to  the  railroad  for  their  odd- 
numbered  sections,  but  as  soon  as  the  land  was  patented 
the  railroad  would  grade  it  in  value  and  offer  it  for  sale, 
the  first  occupants  having  the  first  chance  of  purchase. 
The  price  of  these  lands  was  to  be  fixed  by  the  price  the 
government  put  upon  its  own  adjoining  lands — about 
two  dollars  and  a  half  per  acre. 

With  cultivation  and  improvement  the  ranches  must 
inevitably  appreciate  in  value.  There  was  every  chance 
to  make  fortunes.  When  the  railroad  lands  about 
Bonneville  had  been  thrown  open,  there  had  been  almost 
a  rush  in  the  matter  of  settlement,  and  Broderson,  An- 
nixter,  Derrick,  and  Osterman,  being  foremost  with 
their  claims,  had  secured  the  pick  of  the  country.  But 
the  land  once  settled  upon,  the  P.  and  S.  W.  seemed  to  be 
in  no  hurry  as  to  fixing  exactly  the  value  of  its  sections 


A  Story  of  California  97 

included  in  the  various  ranches  and  offering  them  for 
sale.  The  matter  dragged  along  from  year  to  year,  was 
forgotten  for  months  together,  being  only  brought  to 
mind  on  such  occasions  as  this,  when  the  rumour  spread 
that  the  General  Office  was  about  to  take  definite  action 
in  the  affair. 

"  As  soon  as  the  railroad  wants  to  talk  business  with 
me,"  observed  Annixter,  "  about  selling  me  their  interest 
in  Quien  Sabe,  I'm  ready.  The  land  has  more  than 
quadrupled  in  value.  I'll  bet  I  could  sell  it  to-mor- 
row for  fifteen  dollars  an  acre,  and  if  I  buy  of  the  rail- 
road for  two  and  a  half  an  acre,  there's  boodle  in  the 
game." 

"  For  two  and  a  half !  "  exclaimed  Genslinger.  "  You 
don't  suppose  the  railroad  will  let  their  land  go  for  any 
such  figure  as  that,  do  you  ?  Wherever  did  you  get  that 
idea?" 

"  From  the  circulars  and  pamphlets,"  answered  Har- 
ran,  "  that  the  railroad  issued  to  us  when  they  opened 
these  lands.  They  are  pledged  to  that.  Even  the  P.  and 
S.  W.  couldn't  break  such  a  pledge  as  that.  You  are  new 
in  the  country,  Mr.  Genslinger.  You  don't  remember 
the  conditions  upon  which  we  took  up  this  land." 

"  And  our  improvements,"  exclaimed  Annixter. 
"  Why,  Magnus  and  I  have  put  about  five  thousand  dol- 
lars between  us  into  that  irrigating  ditch  already.  I 
guess  we  are  not  improving  the  land  just  to  make  it 
valuable  for  the  railroad  people.  No  matter  how  much 
we  improve  the  land,  or  how  much  it  increases  in  value, 
they  have  got  to  stick  by  their  agreement  on  the  basis  of 
two-fifty  per  acre.  Here's  one  case  where  the  P.  and 
S.  W.  don't  get  everything  in  sight." 

Genslinger  frowned,  perplexed. 

"  I  am  new  in  the  country,  as  Harran  says,"  he  an- 
swered, "  but  it  seems  to  me  that  there's  no  fairness  in 


98  The  OctopuG 

that  proposition.  The  presence  of  the  railroad  has 
helped  increase  the  value  of  your  ranches  quite  as  much 
as  your  improvements.  Why  should  you  get  all  the  bene- 
fit of  the  rise  in  value  and  the  railroad  nothing?  The 
fair  way  would  be  to  share  it  between  you." 

"  I  don't  care  anything  about  that,"  declared  Annixter. 
"  They  agreed  to  charge  but  two-fifty,  and  they've  got  to 
stick  to  it." 

"  Well,"  murmured  Genslinger,  "  from  what  I  know  of 
the  affair,  I  don't  believe  the  P.  and  S.  W.  intends  to  sell 
for  two-fifty  an  acre,  at  all.  The  managers  of  the  road 
want  the  best  price  they  can  get  for  everything  in  these 
hard  times." 

"  Times  aren't  ever  very  hard  for  the  railroad,"  haz- 
ards old  Broderson. 

Broderson  was  the  oldest  man  in  the  room.  He  was 
about  sixty-five  years  of  age,  venerable,  with  a  white 
beard,  his  figure  bent  earthwards  with  hard  work. 

He  was  a  narrow-minded  man,  painfully  conscientious 
in  his  statements  lest  he  should  be  unjust  to  somebody ; 
a  slow  thinker,  unable  to  let  a  subject  drop  when  once 
he  had  started  upon  it.  He  had  no  sooner  uttered 
his  remark  about  hard  times  than  he  was  moved  to 
qualify  it. 

"  Hard  times,"  he  repeated,  a  troubled,  perplexed  note 
in  his  voice ;  "  well,  yes — yes.  I  suppose  the  road  docs 
have  hard  times,  maybe.  Everybody  does — of  course. 
I  didn't  mean  that  exactly.  I  believe  in  being  just  and 
fair  to  everybody.  I  mean  that  we've  got  to  use  their 
lines  and  pay  their  charges  good  years  and  bad  years, 
the  P.  and  S.  W.  being  the  only  road  in  the  State.  That 
is — well,  when  I  say  the  only  road — no,  I  won't  say  the 
only  road.  Of  course  there  are  other  roads.  There's  the 
D.  P.  and  M.  and  the  San  Francisco  and  North  Pacific, 
that  runs  up  to  Ukiah.  I  got  a  brother-in-law  in  Ukiah, 


A  Story  of  California  99 

That's  not  much  of  a  wheat  country  round  Ukiah, 
though  they  do  grow  some  wheat  there,  come  to  think. 
But  I  guess  it's  too  far  north.  Well,  of  course  there 
isn't  much.  Perhaps  sixty  thousand  acres  in  the  whole 
county — if  you  include  barley  and  oats.  I  don't  know; 
maybe  it's  nearer  forty  thousand.  I  don't  remember 
very  well.  That's  a  good  many  years  ago.  I " 

But  Annixter,  at  the  end  of  all  patience,  turned  to 
Genslinger,  cutting  short  the  old  man : 

"  Oh,  rot!  Of  course  the  railroad  will  sell  at  two- 
fifty,"  he  cried.  "  We've  got  the  contracts." 

"  Look  to  them,  then,  Mr.  Annixter,"  retorted  Gen- 
slinger significantly,  "  look  to  them.  Be  sure  that  you 
are  protected." 

Soon  after  this  Genslinger  took  himself  away,  and  Der- 
rick's Chinaman  came  in  to  set  the  table. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  he  meant?  "  asked  Broderson, 
when  Genslinger  was  gone. 

"  About  this  land  business  ?  "  said  Annixter.  "  Oh,  I 
don't  know.  Some  torn  fool  idea.  Haven't  we  got  their 
terms  printed  in  black  and  white  in  their  circulars  ? 
There's  their  pledge." 

"  Oh,  as  to  pledges,"  murmured  Broderson,  "  the  rail- 
road is  not  always  too  much  hindered  by  those." 

"  Where's  Osterman?  "  demanded  Annixter,  abruptly 
changing  the  subject  as  if  it  were  not  worth  discussion. 
"  Isn't  that  goat  Osterman  coming  down  here  to- 
night?" 

"  You  telephoned  him,  didn't  you,  Presley?  "  inquired 
Magnus. 

Presley  had  taken  Princess  Nathalie  upon  his  knee, 
stroking  her  long,  sleek  hair,  and  the  cat,  stupefied  with 
beatitude,  had  closed  her  eyes  to  two  fine  lines,  clawing 
softly  at  the  corduroy  of  Presley's  trousers  with  alter- 
nate paws. 


ioo  The  Octopus 

"  Yes,  sir,"  returned  Presley.  "  He  said  he  would  be 
here." 

And  as  he  spoke,  young  Osterman  arrived. 

He  was  a  young  fellow,  but  singularly  inclined  to  bald- 
ness. His  ears,  very  red  and  large,  stuck  out  at  right 
angles  from  either  side  of  his  head,  and  his  mouth,  too, 
was  large — a  great  horizontal  slit  beneath  his  nose.  His 
cheeks  were  of  a  brownish  red,  the  cheek  bones  a  little 
salient.  His  face  was  that  of  a  comic  actor,  a  singer  of 
songs,  a  man  never  at  a  loss  for  an  answer,  continually 
striving  to  make  a  laugh.  But  he  took  no  great  interest 
in  ranching  and  left  the  management  of  his  land  to  his 
superintendents  and  foremen,  he,  himself,  living  in 
Bonneville.  He  was  a  poser,  a  wearer  of  clothes,  forever 
acting  a  part,  striving  to  create  an  impression,  to  draw 
attention  to  himself.  He  was  not  without  a  certain 
energy,  but  he  devoted  it  to  small  ends,  to  perfecting 
himself  in  little  accomplishments,  continually  running 
after  some  new  thing,  incapable  of  persisting  long  in  any 
one  course.  At  one  moment  his  mania  would  be  fencing; 
the  next,  sleight-of-hand  tricks;  the  next,  archery.  For 
upwards  of  one  month  he  had  devoted  himself  to  learn- 
ing how  to  play  two  banjos  simultaneously,  then  aban- 
doning this  had  developed  a  sudden  passion  for  stamped 
leather  work  and  had  made  a  quantity  of  purses,  tennis 
belts,  and  hat  bands,  which  he  presented  to  young  ladies 
of  his  acquaintance.  It  was  his  policy  never  to  make  an 
enemy.  He  was  liked  far  better  than  he  was  respected. 
People  spoke  of  him  as  "  that  goat  Osterman,"  or  "  that 
fool  Osterman  kid,"  and  invited  him  to  dinner.  He  was 
of  the  sort  who  somehow  cannot  be  ignored.  If  only  be- 
cause of  his  clamour  he  made  himself  important.  If  he 
had  one  abiding  trait,  it  was  his  desire  of  astonishing 
people,  and  in  some  way,  best  known  to  himself,  man- 
aged to  cause  the  circulation  of  the  most  extraordinary 


A  Story  of  California  101 

stories  wherein  he,  himself,  was  the  chief  actor.  He  was 
glib,  voluble,  dexterous,  ubiquitous,  a  teller  of  funny 
stones,  a  cracker  of  jokes. 

Naturally  enough,  he  was  heavily  in  debt,  but  carried 
the  burden  of  it  with  perfect  nonchalance.  The  year  be- 
fore S.  Behrman  had  held  mortgages  for  fully  a  third  of 
his  crop  and  had  squeezed  him  viciously  for  interest. 
But  for  all  that,  Osterman  and  S.  Behrman  were  con- 
tinually seen  arm-in-arm  on  the  main  street  of  Bonne- 
ville.  Osterman  was  accustomed  to  slap  S.  Behrman  on 
his  fat  back,  declaring: 

"  You're  a  good  fellow,  old  jelly-belly,  after  all,  hey?  " 

As  Osterman  entered  from  the  porch,  after  hanging 
his  cavalry  poncho  and  dripping  hat  on  the  rack  outside, 
Mrs.  Derrick  appeared  in  the  door  that  opened  from  the 
dining-room  into  the  glass-roofed  hallway  just  beyond. 
Osterman  saluted  her  with  effusive  cordiality  and  with 
ingratiating  blandness. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  stay,"  she  explained,  smiling  pleas- 
antly at  the  group  of  men,  her  pretty,  wide-open  brown 
eyes,  with  their  look  of  inquiry  and  innocence,  glancing 
from  face  to  face,  "  I  only  came  to  see  if  you  wanted 
anything  and  to  say  how  do  you  do." 

She  began  talking  to  old  Broderson,  making  in- 
quiries as  to  his  wife,  who  had  been  sick  the  last  week, 
and  Osterman  turned  to  the  company,  shaking  hands 
all  around,  keeping  up  an  incessant  stream  of  conver- 
sation. 

"  Hello,  boys  and  girls.  Hello,  Governor.  Sort  of  a 
gathering  of  the  clans  to-night.  Well,  if  here  isn't  that 
man  Annixter.  Hello,  Buck.  What  do  you  know? 
Kind  of  dusty  out  to-night." 

At  once  Annixter  began  to  get  red  in  the  face,  retiring 
towards  a  corner  of  the  room,  standing  in  an  awkward 
position  by  the  case  of  stuffed  birds,  shambling  and  con- 


102  The  Octopus 

fused,  while  Mrs.  Derrick  was  present,  standing  rigidly 
on  both  feet,  his  elbows  close  to  his  sides.  But  he  was 
angry  with  Osterman,  muttering  imprecations  to  him- 
self, horribly  vexed  that  the  young  fellow  should  call  him 
"Buck"  before  Magnus's  wife.  This  goat  Osterman! 
Hadn't  he  any  sense,  that  fool?  Couldn't  he  ever  learn 
how  to  behave  before  a  feemale?  Calling  him  "  Buck  " 
like  that  while  Mrs.  Derrick  was  there.  Why  a  stable- 
boy  would  know  better ;  a  hired  man  would  have  better 
manners. 

All  through  the  dinner  that  followed  Annixter  was  out 
of  sorts,  sulking  in  his  place,  refusing  to  eat  by  way  of 
vindicating  his  self-respect,  resolving  to  bring  Osterman 
up  with  a  sharp  turn  if  he  called  him  "  Buck  "  again. 

The  Chinaman  had  made  a  certain  kind  of  plum  pud- 
ding for  dessert,  and  Annixter,  who  remembered  other 
-dinners  at  the  Derrick's,  had  been  saving  himself  for 
this,  and  had  meditated  upon  it  all  through  the  meal. 
No  doubt,  it  would  restore  all  his  good  humour,  and  he 
believed  his  stomach  was  so  far  recovered  as  to  be  able 
to  stand  it. 

But,  unfortunately,  the.  pudding  was  served  with  a 
sauce  that  he  abhorred — a  thick,  gruel-like,  colourless 
mixture,  made  from  plain  water  and  sugar.  Before  he 
could  interfere,  the  Chinaman  had  poured  a  quantity  of 
it  upon  his  plate. 

"  Faugh!  "  exclaimed  Annixter.  "  It  makes  me  sick. 
Such — such  sloop.  Take  it  away.  I'll  have  mine  straight, 
if  you  don't  mind." 

"  That's  good  for  your  stomach,  Buck,"  observed 
young  Osterman ;  "  makes  it  go  down  kind  of  sort  of 
slick;  don't  you  see?  Sloop,  hey?  That's  a  good  name." 

"  Look  here,  don't  you  call  me  Buck.  You  don't  seem 
to  have  any  sense,  and,  besides,  it  isn't  good  for  my 
stomach.  I  know  better.  What  do  you  know  about  my 


A  Story  of  California  103 

stomach,  anyhow  ?  Just  looking  at  sloop  like  that  makes 
me  sick." 

A  little  while  after  this  the  Chinaman  cleared  away  the 
dessert  and  brought  in  coffee  and  cigars.  The  whiskey 
bottle  and  the  syphon  of  soda-water  reappeared.  The 
men  eased  themselves  in  their  places,  pushing  back  from 
the  table,  lighting  their  cigars,  talking  of  the  beginning 
of  the  rains  and  the  prospects  of  a  rise  in  wheat.  Brod- 
erson  began  an  elaborate  mental  calculation,  trying  to 
settle  in  his  mind  the  exact  date  of  his  visit  to  Ukiah,  and 
Osterman  did  sleight-of-hand  tricks  with  bread  pills. 
But  Princess  Nathalie,  the  cat,  was  uneasy.  Annixter 
was  occupying  her  own  particular  chair  in  which  she 
slept  every  night.  She  could  not  go  to  sleep,  but  spied 
upon  him  continually,  watching  his  every  movement 
with  her  lambent,  yellow  eyes,  clear  as  amber. 

Then,  at  length,  Magnus,  who  was  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  moved  in  his  place,  assuming  a  certain  magisterial 
attitude.  "  Well,  gentlemen,"  he  observed,  "  I  have  lost 
my  case  against  the  railroad,  the  grain-rate  case.  Ul- 
steen  decided  against  me,  and  now  I  hear  rumours  to 
the  effect  that  rates  for  the  hauling  of  grain  are  to  be 
advanced." 

When  Magnus  had  finished,  there  was  a  moment's 
silence,  each  member  of  the  group  maintaining  his  at- 
titude of  attention  and  interest.  It  was  Harran  who  first 
spoke. 

"  S.  Behrman  manipulated  the  whole  affair.  There's  a 
big  deal  of  some  kind  in  the  air,  and  if  there  is,  we  all 
know  who  is  back  of  it ;  S.  Behrman,  of  course,  but  who's 
back  of  him?  It's  Shelgrim." 

Shelgrim !  The  name  fell  squarely  in  the  midst  of  the 
conversation,  abrupt,  grave,  sombre,  big  with  sugges- 
tion, pregnant  with  huge  associations.  No  one  in  the 
group  who  was  not  familiar  with  it;  no  one,  for  that 


104  The  Octopus 

matter,  in  the  county,  the  State,  the  whole  reach  of  the 
West,  the  entire  Union,  that  did  not  entertain  convictions 
as  to  the  man  who  carried  it;  a  giant  figure  in  the  end-of- 
the-century  finance,  a  product  of  circumstance,  an  inevit- 
able result  of  conditions,  characteristic,  typical,  symbolic 
of  ungovernable  forces.  In  the  New  Movement,  the  New 
Finance,  the  reorganisation  of  capital,  the  amalgamation 
of  powers,  the  consolidation  of  enormous  enterprises — 
no  one  individual  was  more  constantly  in  the  eye  of  the 
world;  no  one  was  more  hated,  more  dreaded,  no  one 
more  compelling  of  unwilling  tribute  to  his  command- 
ing genius,  to  the  colossal  intellect  operating  the  width 
of  an  entire  continent  than  the  president  and  owner  of 
the  Pacific  and  Southwestern. 

"  I  don't  think,-  however,  he  has  moved  yet,"  said 
Magnus. 

"  The  thing  for  us,  then,"  exclaimed  Osterman,  "  is 
to  stand  from  under  before  he  does." 

"  Moved  yet !  "  snorted  Annixter.  "  He's  probably 
moved  so  long  ago  that  we've  never  noticed  it." 

"  In  any  case,"  hazarded  Magnus,  "  it  is  scarcely  prob- 
able that  the  deal — whatever  it  is  to  be — has  been  con- 
summated. If  we  act  quickly,  there  may  be  a  chance." 

"  Act  quickly !  How  ?  "  demanded  Annixter.  "  Good 
Lord !  what  can  you  do  ?  We're  cinched  already.  It 
all  amounts  to  just  this :  You  can't  buck  against  the  rail- 
road. We've  tried  it  and  tried  it,  and  we  are  stuck  every 
time.  You,  yourself,  Derrick,  have  just  lost  your  grain- 
rate  case.  S.  Behrman  did  you  up.  Shelgrim  owns  the 
courts.  He's  got  men  like  Ulsteen  in  his  pocket.  He's 
got  the  Railroad  Commission  in  his  pocket.  He's  got 
the  Governor  of  the  State  in  his  pocket.  He  keeps  a 
million-dollar  lobby  at  Sacramento  every  minute  of  the 
time  the  legislature  is  in  session;  he's  got  his  own  men 
on  the  floor  of  the  United  States  Senate.  He  has  the 


A  Story  of  California  105 

whole  thing  organised  like  an  army  corps.  What  are 
you  going  to  do  ?  He  sits  in  his  office  in  San  Francisco 
and  pulls  the  strings  and  we've  got  to  dance." 

"  But— well— but,"  hazarded  Broderson,  "  but  there's 
the  Interstate  Commerce  Commission.  At  least  on 
long-haul  rates  they " 

"  Hoh,  yes,  the  Interstate  Commerce  Commission," 
shouted  Annixter,  scornfully,  "  that's  great,  ain't  it  ? 
The  greatest  Punch  and  Judy  show  on  earth.  It's  almost 
as  good  as  the  Railroad  Commission.  There  never  was 
and  there  never  will  be  a  California  Railroad  Commission 
not  in  the  pay  of  the  P.  and  S.  W." 

"  It  is  to  the  Railroad  Commission,  nevertheless,"  re- 
marked Magnus,  "  that  the  people  of  the  State  must 
look  for  relief.  That  is  our  only  hope.  Once  elect  Com- 
missioners who  would  be  loyal  to  the  people,  and  the 
whole  system  of  excessive  rates  falls  to  the  ground." 

"  Well,  why  not  have  a  Railroad  Commission  of  our 
own,  then?  "  suddenly  declared  young  Osterman. 

"  Because  it  can't  be  done,"  retorted  Annixter.  "  You 
can't  buck  against  the  railroad  and  if  you  could  you  can't 
organise  the  farmers  in  the  San  Joaquin.  We  tried  it 
once,  and  it  was  enough  to  turn  your  stomach.  The  rail- 
road quietly  bought  delegates  through  S.  Behrman  and 
did  us  up." 

"  Well,  that's  the  game  to  play,"  said  Osterman  de- 
cisively, "  buy  delegates." 

"  It's  the  only  game  that  seems  to  win,"  admitted 
Harran  gloomily. 

"  Or  ever  will  win,"  exclaimed  Osterman,  a  sudden 
excitement  seeming  to  take  possession  of  him.  His 
face — the  face  of  a  comic  actor,  with  its  great  slit  of 
mouth  and  stiff,  red  ears — went  abruptly  pink. 

"  Look  here,"  he  cried,  "  this  thing  is  getting  des- 
perate. We've  fought  and  fought  in  the  courts  and  out 


io6  The  Octopus 

and  we've  tried  agitation  and — and  all  the  rest  of  it  and 
S.  Behrman  sacks  us  every  time.  Now  comes  the  time 
when  there's  a  prospect  of  a  big  crop ;  we've  had  no  rain 
for  two  years  and  the  land  has  had  a  long  rest.  If  there 
is  any  rain  at  all  this  winter,  we'll  have  a  bonanza  year, 
and  just  at  this  very  moment  when  we've  got  our  chance 
— a  chance  to  pay  off  our  mortgages  and  get  clear  of 
debt  and  make  a  strike — here  is  Shelgrim  making  a  deal 
to  cinch  us  and  put  up  rates.  And  now  here's  the  pri- 
maries coming  off  and  a  new  Railroad  Commission  go- 
ing in.  That's  why  Shelgrim  chose  this  time  to  make 
his  deal.  If  we  wait  till  Shelgrim  pulls  it  off,  we're  done 
for,  that's  flat.  I  tell  you  we're  in  a  fix  if  we  don't  keep 
an  eye  open.  Things  are  getting  desperate.  Magnus 
has  just  said  that  the  key  to  the  whole  thing  is  the  Rail- 
road Commission.  Well,  why  not  have  a  Commission  of 
our  own  ?  Never  mind  how  we  get  it,  let's  get  it.  If  it's 
got  to  be  bought,  let's  buy  it  and  put  our  own  men  on  it 
and  dictate  what  the  rates  will  be.  Suppose  it  costs 
a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  Well,  we'll  get  back  more 
than  that  in  cheap  rates." 

"  Mr.  Osterman,"  said  Magnus,  fixing  the  young  man 
with  a  swift  glance,  "  Mr.  Osterman,  you  are  proposing 
a  scheme  of  bribery,  sir." 

"  I  am  proposing,"  repeated  Osterman,  "  a  scheme  of 
bribery.  Exactly  so." 

"  And  a  crazy,  wild-eyed  scheme  at  that,"  said  An- 
nixter  gruffly.  "  Even  supposing  you  bought  a  Railroad 
Commission  and  got  your  schedule  of  low  rates,  what 
happens?  The  P.  and  S.  W.  crowd  get  out  an  injunction 
and  tie  you  up." 

"  They  would  tie  themselves  up,  too.  Hauling  at  low 
rates  is  better  than  no  hauling  at  all.  The  wheat  has 
got  to  be  moved." 

"  Oh,  rot !  "  cried  Annixter.    "  Aren't  you  ever  going 


A  Story  of  California  107 

to  learn  any  sense  ?  Don't  you  know  that  cheap  trans- 
portation would  benefit  the  Liverpool  buyers  and  not 
us  ?  Can't  it  be  fed  into  you  that  you  can't  buck  against 
the  railroad?  When  you  try  to  buy  a  Board  of  Com- 
missioners don't  you  see  that  you'll  have  to  bid  against 
the  railroad,  bid  against  a  corporation  that  can  chuck 
out  millions  to  our  thousands?  Do  you  think  you  can 
bid  against  the  P.  and  S.  W.?  " 

"  The  railroad  don't  need  to  know  we  are  in  the  game 
against  them  till  we've  got  our  men  seated." 

"  And  when  you've  got  them  seated,  what's  to  prevent 
the  corporation  buying  them  right  over  your  head  ?  " 

"  If  we've  got  the  right  kind  of  men  in  they  could  not 
be  bought  that  way,"  interposed  Harran.  "  I  don't 
know  but  what  there's  something  in  what  Osterman 
says.  We'd  have  the  naming  of  the  Commission  and 
we'd  name  honest  men." 

Annixter  struck  the  table  with  his  fist  in  exasperation. 

"  Honest  men!  "  he  shouted;  "the  kind  of  men  you 
could  get  to  go  into  such  a  scheme  would  have  to  be  dis- 
honest to  begin  with." 

Broderson,  shifting  uneasily  in  his  place,  fingering  his 
beard  with  a  vague,  uncertain  gesture,  spoke  again : 

"  It  would  be  the  chance  of  them — our  Commissioners 
— selling  out  against  the  certainty  of  Shelgrim  doing  us 
up.  That  is,"  he  hastened  to  add,  "almost  a  certainty; 
pretty  near  a  certainty." 

"  Of  course,  it  would  be  a  chance,"  exclaimed  Oster- 
man. "  But  it's  come  to  the  point  where  we've  got  to 
take  chances,  risk  a  big  stake  to  make  a  big  strike,  and 
risk  is  better  than  sure  failure." 

"  I  can  be  no  party  to  a  scheme  of  avowed  bribery 
and  corruption,  Mr.  Osterman,"  declared  Magnus,  a 
ring  of  severity  in  his  voice.  "  I  am  surprised,  sir,  that 
you  should  even  broach  the  subject  in  my  hearing." 


io8  The  Octopus 

"  And,"  cried  Annixter,  "  it  can't  be  done." 

"  I  don't  know,"  muttered  Harran,  "  maybe  it  just 
wants  a  little  spark  like  this  to  fire  the  whole  train." 

Magnus  glanced  at  his  son  in  considerable  surprise. 
He  had  not  expected  this  of  Harran.  But  so  great  was 
his  affection  for  his  son,  so  accustomed  had  he  become 
to  listening  to  his  advice,  to  respecting  his  opinions, 
that,  for  the  moment,  after  the  first  shock  of  surprise 
and  disappointment,  he  was  influenced  to  give  a  certain 
degree  of  attention  to  this  new  proposition.  He  in  no 
way  countenanced  it.  At  any  moment  he  was  prepared 
to  rise  in  his  place  and  denounce  it  and  Osterman  both. 
It  was  trickery  of  the  most  contemptible  order,  a  thing 
he  believed  to  be  unknown  to  the  old  school  of  politics 
and  statesmanship  to  which  he  was  proud  to  belong; 
but  since  Harran,  even  for  one  moment,  considered  it, 
he,  Magnus,  who  trusted  Harran  implicitly,  would  do 
likewise — if  it  was  only  to  oppose  and  defeat  it  in  its 
very  beginnings. 

And  abruptly  the  discussion  began.  Gradually  Oster- 
man, by  dint  of  his  clamour,  his  strident  reiteration,  the 
plausibility  of  his  glib,  ready  assertions,  the  ease  with 
which  he  extricated  himself  when  apparently  driven  to  a 
corner,  completely  won  over  old  Broderson  to  his  way 
of  thinking.  Osterman  bewildered  him  with  his  volu- 
bility, the  lightning  rapidity  with  which  he  leaped  from 
one  subject  to  another,  garrulous,  witty,  flamboyant, 
terrifying  the  old  man  with  pictures  of  the  swift  ap- 
proach of  ruin,  the  imminence  of  danger. 

Annixter,  who  led  the  argument  against  him — loving 
argument  though  he  did — appeared  to  poor  advantage, 
unable  to  present  his  side  effectively.  He  called  Oster- 
man a  fool,  a  goat,  a  senseless,  crazy-headed  jackass,  but 
was  unable  to  refute  his  assertions.  His  debate  was  the 
clumsy  heaving  of  brickbats,  brutal,  direct.  He  con- 


A  Story  of  California  109 

tradicted  everything  Osterman  said  as  a  matter  of  prin- 
ciple, made  conflicting  assertions,  declarations  that  were 
absolutely  inconsistent,  and  when  Osterman  or  Harran 
used  these  against  him,  could  only  exclaim: 

"  Well,  in  a  way  it's  so,  and  then  again  in  a  way  it 
"isn't." 

But  suddenly  Osterman  discovered  a  new  argument. 
"  If  we  swing  this  deal,"  he  cried,  "  we've  got  old  jelly- 
belly  Behrman  right  where  we  want  him." 

"  He's  the  man  that  does  us  every  time,"  cried  Harran. 
"  If  there  is  dirty  work  to  be  done  in  which  the  railroad 
doesn't  wish  to  appear,  it  is  S.  Behrman  who  does  it. 
If  the  freight  rates  are  to  be  '  adjusted '  to  squeeze  us  a 
little  harder,  it  is  S.  Behrman  who  regulates  what  we  can 
stand.  If  there's  a  judge  to  be  bought,  it  is  S.  Behrman 
who  does  the  bargaining.  If  there  is  a  jury  to  be  bribed, 
it  is  S.  Behrman  who  handles  the  money.  If  there  is  an 
election  to  be  jobbed,  it  is  S.  Behrman  who  manipulates 
it.  It's  Behrman  here  and  Behrman  there.  It  is  Behr- 
man we  come  against  every  time  we  make  a  move.  It  is 
Behrman  who  has  the  grip  of  us  and  will  never  let  go 
till  he  has  squeezed  us  bone  dry.  Why,  when  I  think 
of  it  all  sometimes  I  wonder  I  keep  my  hands  off  the 
man." 

Osterman  got  on  his  feet ;  leaning  across  the  table, 
gesturing  wildly  with  his  right  hand,  his  serio-comic  face, 
with  its  bald  forehead  and  stiff,  red  ears,  was  inflamed 
with  excitement.  He  took  the  floor,  creating  an  impres- 
sion, attracting  all  attention  to  himself,  playing  to  the 
gallery,  gesticulating,  clamourous,  full  of  noise. 

"Well,  now  is  your  chance  to  get  even,"  he  vociferated. 
"  It  is  now  or  never.  You  can  take  it  and  save  the  situa- 
tion for  yourselves  and  all  California  or  you  can  leave 
it  and  rot  on  your  own  ranches.  Buck,  I  know  you.  I 
know  you're  not  afraid  of  anything  that  wears  skin. 


J  i  o  The  Octopus 

I  know  you've  got  sand  all  through  you,  and  I  know  if 
I  showed  you  how  we  could  put  our  deal  through  and 
seat  a  Commission  of  our  own,  you  wouldn't  hang  back. 
Governor,  you're  a  brave  man.  You  know  the  advan- 
tage of  prompt  and  fearless  action.  You  are  not  the 
sort  to  shrink  from  taking  chances.  To  play  for  big 
stakes  is  just  your  game — to  stake  a  fortune  on  the  turn 
of  a  card.  You  didn't  get  the  reputation  of  being  the 
strongest  poker  player  in  El  Dorado  County  for  noth- 
ing. Now,  here's  the  biggest  gamble  that  ever  came 
your  way.  If  we  stand  up  to  it  like  men  with  guts  in  us, 
we'll  win  out.  If  we  hesitate,  we're  lost." 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  can  help  playing  the  goat,  Oster- 
man,"  remarked  Annixter,  "  but  what's  your  idea? 
What  do  you  think  we  can  do?  I'm  not  saying,"  he 
hastened  to  interpose,  "  that  you've  anyways  convinced 
me  by  all  this  cackling.  I  know  as  well  as  you  that  we 
are  in  a  hole.  But  I  knew  that  before  I  came  here  to- 
night. You've  not  done  anything  to  make  me  change 
my  mind.  But  just  what  do  you  propose?  Let's 
hear  it." 

"  Well,  I  say  the  first  thing  to  do  is  to  see  Disbrow. 
He's  the  political  boss  of  the  Denver,  Pueblo,  and  Mo- 
jave  road.  We  will  have  to  get  in  with  the  machine 
some  way  and  that's  particularly  why  I  want  Magntis 
with  us.  He  knows  politics  better  than  any  of  us  and  if 
we  don't  want  to  get  sold  again  we  will  have  to  have 
some  one  that's  in  the  know  to  steer  us." 

"  The  only  politics  I  understand,  Mr.  Osterman,"  an- 
swered Magnus  sternly,  "  are  honest  politics.  You  must 
look  elsewhere  for  your  political  manager.  I  refuse  to 
have  any  part  in  this  matter.  If  the  Railroad  Commis- 
sion can  be  nominated  legitimately,  if  your  arrangements 
can  be  made  without  bribery,  I  am  with  you  to  the  last 
iota  of  my  ability." 


A  Story  of  California  1 1 1 

"  Well,  you  can't  get  what  you  want  without  paying 
for  it,"  contradicted  Annixter. 

Broderson  was  about  to  speak  when  Osterman  kicked 
his  foot  under  the  table.  He,  himself,  held  his  peace. 
He  was  quick  to  see  that  if  he  could  involve  Magnus  and 
Annixter  in  an  argument,  Annixter,  for  the  mere  love  of 
contention,  would  oppose  the  Governor  and,  without 
knowing  it,  would  commit  himself  to  his — Osterman's — 
scheme. 

This  was  precisely  what  happened.  In  a  few  moments 
Annixter  was  declaring  at  top  voice  his  readiness  to 
mortgage  the  crop  of  Quien  Sabe,  if  necessary,  for  the 
sake  of  "  busting  S.  Behrman."  He  could  see  no  great 
obstacle  in  the  way  of  controlling  the  nominating  con- 
vention so  far  as  securing  the  naming  of  two  Railroad 
Commissioners  was  concerned.  Two  was  all  they 
needed.  Probably  it  would  cost  money.  You  didn't  get 
something  for  nothing.  It  would  cost  them  all  a  good 
deal  more  if  they  sat  like  lumps  on  a  log  and  played 
tiddledy-winks  while  Shelgrim  sold  out  from  under  them. 
Then  there  was  this,  too :  the  P.  and  S.  W.  were  hard  up 
just  then.  The  shortage  on  the  State's  wheat  crop  for 
the  last  two  years  had  affected  them,  too.  They  were 
retrenching  in  expenditures  all  along  the  line.  Hadn't 
they  just  cut  wages  in  all  departments?  There  was  this 
affair  of  Dyke's  to  prove  it.  The  railroad  didn't  always 
act  as  a  unit,  either.  There  was  always  a  party  in  it 
that  opposed  spending  too  much  money.  He  would  bet 
that  party  was  strong  just  now.  Fie  was  kind  of  sick 
himself  of  being  kicked  by  S.  Behrman.  Hadn't  that 
pip  turned  up  on  his  ranch  that  very  day  to  bully  him 
about  his  own  line  fence?  Next  he  would  be  telling  him 
what  kind  of  clothes  he  ought  to  wear.  Harran  had  the 
right  idea.  Somebody  had  got  to  be  busted  mighty  soon 
now  and  he  didn't  propose  that  it  should  be  he. 


H2  The  Octopus 

"  Now  you  are  talking  something  like  sense/'  observed 
Osterman.  "  I  thought  you  would  see  it  like  that  when 
you  got  my  idea." 

"  Your  idea,  your  idea!  "  cried  Annixter.  "  Why,  I've 
had  this  idea  myself  for  over  three  years." 

"  What  about  Disbrow?  "  asked  Harran,  hastening  to 
interrupt.  "  Why  do  we  want  to  see  Disbrow?  " 

"  Disbrow  is  the  political  man  for  the  Denver,  Pueblo, 
and  Mojave,"  answered  Osterman,  "  and  you  see  it's  like 
this :  the  Mojave  road  don't  run  up  into  the  valley  at  all. 
Their  terminus  is  way  to  the  south  of  us,  and  they  don't 
care  anything  about  grain  rates  through  the  San  Joaquin. 
They  don't  care  how  anti-railroad  the  Commission  is, 
because  the  Commission's  rulings  can't  affect  them.  But 
they  divide  traffic  with  the  P.  and  S.  W.  in  the  southern 
part  of  the  State  and  they  have  a  good  deal  of  influence 
with  that  road.  I  want  to  get  the  Mojave  road,  through 
Disbrow,  to  recommend  a  Commissioner  of  our  choosing 
to  the  P.  and  S.  W.  and  have  the  P.  and  S.  W.  adopt  him 
as  their  own." 

"Who,  for  instance?" 

"  Darrell,  that  Los  Angeles  man — remember?  " 

"  Well,  Darrell  is  no  particular  friend  of  Disbrow," 
said  Annixter.  "Why  should  Disbrow  take  him  up?" 

"  Pm'-cisely,"  cried  Osterman.  "  We  make  it  worth 
Disbrow's  while  to  do  it.  We  go  to  him  and  say,  '  Mr. 
Disbrow,  you  manage  the  politics  for  the  Mojave  rail- 
road, and  what  you  say  goes  with  your  Board  of  Direc- 
tors. We  want  you  to  adopt  our  candidate  for  Railroad 
Commissioner  for  the  third  district.  How  much  do  you 
want  for  doing  it?  '  I  know  we  can  buy  Disbrow.  That 
gives  us  one  Commissioner.  We  need  not  bother  about 
that  any  more.  In  the  first  district  we  don't  make  any 
move  at  all.  We  let  the  political  managers  of  the  P.  and 
S.  W.  nominate  whoever  they  like.  Then  we  concen- 


A  Story  of  California  113 

trate  all  our  efforts  to  putting  in  our  man  in  the  second 
district.  There  is  where  the  big  fight  will  come." 

"  I  see  perfectly  well  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Osterman," 
observed  Magnus,  "  but  make  no  mistake,  sir,  as  to  my 
attitude  in  this  business.  You  may  count  me  as  out  of 
it  entirely." 

"  Well,  suppose  we  win,"  put  in  Annixter  truculently, 
already  acknowledging  himself  as  involved  in  the  pro- 
posed undertaking;  "  suppose  we  win  and  get  low  rates 
for  hauling  grain.  How  about  you,  then?  You  count 
yourself  in  then,  don't  you?  You  get  all  the  benefit  of 
lower  rates  without  sharing  any  of  the  risks  we  take  to 
secure  them.  No,  nor  any  of  the  expense,  either.  No, 
you  won't  dirty  your  fingers  with  helping  us  put  this  deal 
through,  but  you  won't  be  so  cursed  particular  when  it 
comes  to  sharing  the  profits,  will  you?" 

Magnus  rose  abruptly  to  his  full  height,  the  nostrils 
of  his  thin,  hawk-like  nose  vibrating,  his  smooth-shaven 
face  paler  than  ever. 

"  Stop  right  where  you  are,  sir,"  he  exclaimed.  "  You 
forget  yourself,  Mr.  Annixter.  Please  understand  that 
I  tolerate  such  words  as  you  have  permitted  yourself  to 
make  use  of  from  no  man,  not  even  from  my  guest.  I 
shall  ask  you  to  apologise." 

In  an  instant  he  dominated  the  entire  group,  imposing 
a  respect  that  was  as  much  fear  as  admiration.  No  one 
made  response.  For  the  moment  he  was  the  Master 
again,  the  Leader.  Like  so  many  delinquent  school- 
boys, the  others  cowered  before  him,  ashamed,  put  to 
confusion,  unable  to  find  their  tongues.  In  that  brief 
instant  of  silence  following  upon  Magnus's  outburst,  and 
while  he  held  them  subdued  and  over-mastered,  the 
fabric  of  their  scheme  of  corruption  and  dishonesty 
trembled  to  its  base.  It  was  the  last  protest  of  the  Old 
School,  rising  up  there  in  denunciation  of  the  new  order 


ii4  The  Octopus 

of  things,  the  statesman  opposed  to  the  politician;  hon- 
esty, rectitude,  uncompromising  integrity,  prevailing  for 
the  last  time  against  the  devious  manoeuvring,  the  evil 
communications,  the  rotten  expediency  of  a  corrupted 
institution. 

For  a  few  seconds  no  one  answered.  Then,  Annixter, 
moving  abruptly  and  uneasily  in  his  place,  muttered: 

"  I  spoke  upon  provocation.  If  you  like,  we'll  con- 
sider it  unsaid.  /  don't  know  what's  going  to  become  of 
us — go  out  of  business,  I  presume." 

"  I  understand  Magnus  all  right,"  put  in  Osterman. 
"  He  don't  have  to  go  into  this  thing,  if  it's  against  his 
conscience.  That's  all  right.  Magnus  can  stay  out  if  he 
wants  to,  but  that  won't  prevent  us  going  ahead  and  see- 
ing what  we  can  do.  Only  there's  this  about  it."  He 
turned  again  to  Magnus,  speaking  with  every  degree  of 
earnestness,  every  appearance  of  conviction.  "  I  did 
not  deny,  Governor,  from  the  very  start  that  this  would 
mean  bribery.  But  you  don't  suppose  that  /  like  the  idea 
either.  If  there  was  one  legitimate  hope  that  was  yet 
left  untried,  no  matter  how  forlorn  it  was,  I  would  try  it. 
But  there's  not  It  is  literally  and  soberly  true  that 
every  means  of  help — every  honest  means — has  been 
attempted.  Shelgrim  is  going  to  cinch  us.  Grain  rates 
are  increasing,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  price  of 
wheat  is  sagging  lower  and  lower  all  the  time.  If  we 
don't  do  something  we  are  ruined." 

Osterman  paused  for  a  moment,  allowing  precisely  the 
right  number  of  seconds  to  elapse,  then  altering  and 
lowering  his  voice,  added: 

"  I  respect  the  Governor's  principles.  I  admire  them. 
They  do  him  every  degree  of  credit."  Then,  turning  di- 
rectly to  Magnus,  he  concluded  with,  "  But  I  only  want 
you  to  ask  yourself,  sir,  if,  at  such  a  crisis,  one  ought  to 
think  of  oneself,  to  consider  purely  personal  motives  in 


A  Story  of  California  115 

such  a  desperate  situation  as  this  ?  Now,  we  want  you 
with  us,  Governor;  perhaps  not  openly,  if  you  don't 
wish  it,  but  tacitly,  at  least.  I  won't  ask  you  for  an 
answer  to-night,  but  what  I  do  ask  of  you  is  to  consider 
this  matter  seriously  and  think  over  the  whole  business. 
Will  you  do  it?" 

Osterman  ceased  definitely  to  speak,  leaning  forward 
across  the  table,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Magnus's  face.  There 
was  a  silence.  Outside,  the  rain  fell  continually  with 
an  even,  monotonous  murmur.  In  the  group  of  men 
around  the  table  no  one  stirred  nor  spoke.  They  looked 
steadily  at  Magnus,  who,  for  the  moment,  kept  his  glance 
fixed  thoughtfully  upon  the  table  before  him.  In  an- 
other moment  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  from  face 
to  face  around  the  group.  After  all,  these  were  his 
neighbours,  his  friends,  men  writh  whom  he  had  been 
upon  the  closest  terms  of  association.  In  a  way  they 
represented  what  now  had  come  to  be  his  world.  His 
single  swift  glance  took  in  the  men,  one  after  another. 
Annixter,  rugged,  crude,  sitting  awkwardly  and  uncom- 
fortably in  his  chair,  his  unhandsome  face,  with  its  out- 
thrust  lower  lip  and  deeply  cleft  masculine  chin,  flushed 
and  eager,  his  yellow  hair  disordered,  the  one  tuft  on  the 
crown  standing  stiffly  forth  like  the  feather  in  an  Indian's 
scalp  lock;  Broderson,  vaguely  combing  at  his  long 
beard  with  a  persistent  maniacal  gesture,  distressed, 
troubled  and  uneasy;  Osterman,  with  his  comedy  face, 
the  face  of  a  music-hall  singer,  his  head  bald  and  set  off 
by  his  great  red  ears,  leaning  back  in  his  place,  softly 
cracking  the  knuckle  of  a  forefinger,  and,  last  of  all  and 
close  to  his  elbow,  his  son,  his  support,  his  confidant  and 
companion,  Harran,  so  like  himself,  with  his  own  erect, 
fine  carriage,  his  thin,  beak-like  nose  and  his  blond  hair, 
with  its  tendency  to  curl  in  a  forward  direction  in  front 
of  the  ears,  young,  strong,  courageous,  full  of  the  pi'om- 


n6  The  Octopus 

ise  of  the  future  years.  His  blue  eyes  looked  straight 
into  his  father's  with  what  Magnus  could  fancy  a  glance 
of  appeal.  Magnus  could  see  that  expression  in  the 
faces  of  the  others  very  plainly.  They  looked  to  him  as 
their  natural  leader,  their  chief  who  was  to  bring  them 
out  from  this  abominable  trouble  which  was  closing  in 
upon  them,  and  in  them  all  he  saw  many  types.  They 
— these  men  around  his  table  on  that  night  of  the  first 
rain  of  a  coming  season — seemed  to  stand  in  his  imagi- 
nation for  many  others — all  the  farmers,  ranchers,  and 
wheat  growers  of  the  great  San  Joaquin.  Their  words 
were  the  words  of  a  whole  community;  their  distress, 
the  distress  of  an  entire  State,  harried  beyond  the  bounds 
of  endurance,  driven  to  the  wall,  coerced,  exploited, 
harassed  to  the  limits  of  exasperation. 

"  I  will  think  of  it,"  he  said,  then  hastened  to  add,  "  but 
I  can  tell  you  beforehand  that  you  may  expect  only  a 
refusal." 

After  Magnus  had  spoken,  there  was  a  prolonged  si- 
lence. The  conference  seemed  of  itself  to  have  come  to 
an  end  for  that  evening.  Presley  lighted  another  cigar- 
ette from  the  butt  of  the  one  he  had  been  smoking,  and 
the  cat,  Princess  Nathalie,  disturbed  by  his  movement 
and  by  a  whiff  of  drifting  smoke,  jumped  from  his  knee 
to  the  floor  and  picking  her  way  across  the  room  to  An- 
nixter,  rubbed  gently  against  his  legs,  her  tail  in  the  air, 
her  back  delicately  arched.  No  doubt  she  thought  it 
time  to  settle  herself  for  the  night,  and  as  Annixter  gave 
no  indication  of  vacating  his  chair,  she  chose  this  way  of 
cajoling- him  into  ceding  his  place  to  her.  But  Annixter 
was  irritated  at  the  Princess's  attentions,  misunderstand- 
ing their  motive. 

"  Get  out !  "  he  exclaimed,  lifting  his  feet  to  the  rung 
of  the  chair.  "  Lord  love  me,  but  I  sure  do  hate  a 
cat." 


A  Story  of  California  1 1 7 

"  By  the  way,"  observed  Osterman,  "  I  passed  Gen- 
slinger  by  the  gate  as  I  came  in  to-night.  Had  he  been 
here?" 

"  Yes,  he  was  here,"  said  Harran,  "  and — "  but  An- 
nixter  took  the  words  out  of  his  mouth. 

"  He  says  there's  some  talk  of  the  railroad  selling  us 
their  sections  this  winter." 

"  Oh,  he  did,  did  he?  "  exclaimed  Osterman,  interested 
at  once.  "  Where  did  he  hear  that?  " 

"Where  does  a  railroad  paper  get  its  news?  From 
the  General  Office,  I  suppose." 

"  I  hope  he  didn't  get  it  straight  from  headquarters 
that  the  land  was  to  be  graded  at  twenty  dollars  an  acre," 
murmured  Broderson. 

"  What's  that?  "  demanded  Osterman.  "  Twenty  dol- 
lars! Here,  put  me  on,  somebody.  What's  all  up? 
What  did  Genslinger  say?  " 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  get  scared,"  said  Annixter.  "  Gen- 
slinger don't  know,  that's  all.  He  thinks  there  was  no 
understanding  that  the  price  of  the  land  should  not  be 
advanced  when  the  P.  and  S.  W.  came  to  sell  to  us." 

"  Oh,"  muttered  Osterman  relieved.  Magnus,  who 
had  gone  out  into  the  office  on  the  other  side  of  the  glass- 
roofed  hallway,  returned  with  a  long,  yellow  envelope  in 
his  hand,  stuffed  with  newspaper  clippings  and  thin, 
closely  printed  pamphlets. 

"  Here  is  the  circular,"  he  remarked,  drawing  out  one 
of  the  pamphlets.  "  The  conditions  of  settlement  to 
which  the  railroad  obligated  itself  are  very  explicit." 

He  ran  over  the  pages  of  the  circular,  then  read  aloud: 

" '  The  Company  invites  settlers  to  go  upon  its  lands  before 
patents  are  issued  or  the  road  is  completed,  and  intends  in  such 
cases  to  sell  to  them  in  preference  to  any  other  applicants  and  at 
a  price  based  upon  the  value  of  the  land  without  improvements' 
and  on  the  other  page  here,"  he  remarked,  "  they  refer  to  this 


1 1 8  The  Octopus 

again.  */;/  ascertaining  the  value  of  the  lands •,  any  improve* 
ments  that  a  settler  or  any  other  person  may  have  on  the  lands 
ivill  not  be  taken  into  consideration,  neither  will  the  price  be 
increased  in  consequence  thereof.  .  .  .  Settlers  are  thus 
insured  that  in  addition  to  being  accorded  the  first  privilege  of 
purchase,  at  the  graded  price,  they  will  also  be  protected  in 
their  improvements'  And  here,"  he  commented,  "in  Sec- 
tion IX.  it  reads,  '  The  lands  are  not  uniform  in  price,  but 
are  offered  at  various  figures  from  $2.50  upward  per  acre. 
Usually  land  covered  with  tall  timber  is  held  at  $5.00 per  acre, 
and  that  with  pine  at  $10.00.  Most  is  for  sale  at  $2.50  and 
$5.00." 

"  When  you  come  to  read  that  carefully,"  hazarded  old 
Broderson,  "  it — it's  not  so  very  reassuring.  '  Most  is 
for  sale  at  two-fifty  an  acre/  it  says.  That  don't  mean 
'  all'  that  only  means  some.  I  wish  now  that  I  had  se- 
cured a  more  iron-clad  agreement  from  the  P.  and  S.  W. 
when  I  took  up  its  sections  on  my  ranch,  and — and  Gen- 
slinger  is  in  a  position  to  know  the  intentions  of  the  rail- 
road. At  least,  he — he — he  is  in  touch  with  them.  All 
newspaper  men  are.  Those,  I  mean,  who  are  subsidised 
by  the  General  Office.  But,  perhaps,  Genslinger  isn't 
subsidised,  I  don't  know.  I — I  am  not  sure.  Maybe — 
perhaps ' 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  and  you  do  know,  and  maybe 
and  perhaps,  and  you're  not  so  sure,"  vociferated  An- 
nixter.  "  How  about  ignoring  the  value  of  our  improve- 
ments? Nothing  hazy  about  that  statement,  I  guess.  *t 
says  in  so  many  words  that  any  improvements  we  maxe 
will  not  be  considered  when  the  land  is  appraised  and 
that's  the  same  thing,  isn't  it?  The  unimproved  land  is 
worth  two-fifty  an  acre ;  only  timber  land  is  worth  more 
and  there's  none  too  much  timber  about  here." 

"  Well,  one  thing  at  a  time,"  said  Harran.  "  The  thing 
for  us  now  is  to  get  into  this  primary  election  and  the 


A  Story  of  California  1 1 9 

convention  and  see  if  we  can  push  our  men  for  Railroad 
Commissioners." 

"  Right,"  declared  Annixter.  He  rose,  stretching  his 
arms  above  his  head.  "  I've  about  talked  all  the  wind 
out  of  me,"  he  said.  "  Think  I'll  be  moving  along.  It's 
pretty  near  midnight." 

But  when  Magnus's  guests  turned  their  attention  to 
the  matter  of  returning  to  their  different  ranches,  they 
abruptly  realised  that  the  downpour  had  doubled  and 
trebled  in  its  volume  since  earlier  in  the  evening.  The 
fields  and  roads  were  veritable  seas  of  viscid  mud,  the 
night  absolutely  black-dark;  assuredly  not  a  night  in 
which  to  venture  out.  Magnus  insisted  that  the  three 
ranchers  should  put  up  at  Los  Muertos.  Osterman  ac- 
cepted at  once,  Annixter,  after  an  interminable  discus- 
sion, allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded,  in  the  end  accept- 
ing as  though  granting  a  favour.  Broderson  protested 
that  his  wife,  who  was  not  well,  would  expect  him  to  re- 
turn that  night  and  would,  no  doubt,  fret  if  he  did  not 
appear.  Furthermore,  he  lived  close  by,  at  the  junction 
of  the  County  and  Lower  Road.  He  put  a  sack  over  his 
head  and  shoulders,  persistently  declining  Magnus's  of- 
fered umbrella  and  rubber  coat,  and  hurried  away,  re- 
marking that  he  had  no  foreman  on  his  ranch  and  had  to 
be  up  and  about  at  five  the  next  morning  to  put  his  men 
to  work. 

"Fool!"  muttered  Annixter  when  the  old  man  had 
gone.  "  Imagine  farming  a  ranch  the  size  of  his  with- 
out a  foreman." 

Harran  showed  Osterman  and  Annixter  where  they 
were  to  sleep,  in  adjoining  rooms.  Magnus  soon  after- 
ward retired. 

Osterman  found  an  excuse  for  going  to  bed,  but  An- 
nixter and  Harran  remained  in  the  latter's  room,  in  a 
haze  of  blue  tobacco  smoke,  talking,  talking.  But  at 


I2O  The  Octopus 

length,  at  the  end  of  all  argument,  Annixter  got  up, 
remarking: 

"  Well,  I'm  going  to  turn  in.     It's  nearly  two  o'clock." 

He  went  to  his  room,  closing  the  door,  and  Harran, 
opening  his  window  to  clear  out  the  tobacco  smoke, 
looked  out  for  a  moment  across  the  country  toward  the 
south. 

The  darkness  was  profound,  impenetrable;  the  rain 
fell  with  an  uninterrupted  roar.  Near  at  hand  one 
could  hear  the  sound  of  dripping  eaves  and  foliage  and 
the  eager,  sucking  sound  of  the  drinking  earth,  and 
abruptly  while  Harran  stood  looking  out,  one  hand  upon 
the  upraised  sash,  a  great  puff  of  the  outside  air  invaded 
the  room,  odourous  with  the  reek  of  the  soaking  earth, 
redolent  with  fertility,  pungent,  heavy,  tepid.  He  closed 
the  window  again  and  sat  for  a  few  moments  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed,  one  shoe  in  his  hand,  thoughtful  and  ab- 
sorbed, wondering  if  his  father  would  involve  himself 
in  this  new  scheme,  wondering  if,  after  all,  he  wanted 
him  to. 

But  suddenly  he  was  aware  of  a  commotion,  issuing 
from  the  direction  of  Annixter's  room,  and  the  voice  of 
Annixter  himself  upraised  in  expostulation  and  exas- 
peration. The  door  of  the  room  to  which  Annixter  had 
been  assigned  opened  with  a  violent  wrench  and  an 
angry  voice  exclaimed  to  anybody  who  would  listen : 

"  Oh,  yes,  funny,  isn't  it?  In  a  way,  it's  funny,  and 
then,  again,  in  a  way  it  isn't." 

The  door  banged  to  so  that  all  the  windov/s  of  the 
house  rattled  in  their  frames. 

Harran  hurried  out  into  the  dining-room  and  there 
met  Presley  and  his  father,  who  had  been  aroused  as  well 
by  Annixter's  clamour.  Osterman  was  there,  too,  his 
bald  head  gleaming  like  a  bulb  of  ivory  in  the  light  of  the 
lamp  that  Magnus  carried. 


A  Story  of  California  121 

"  What's  all  up?  "  demanded  Osterman.  "  Whatever 
in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  Buck?  " 

Confused  and  terrible  sounds  came  from  behind  the 
door  of  Annixter's  room.  A  prolonged  monologue  of 
grievance,  broken  by  explosions  of  wrath  and  the  vague 
noise  of  some  one  in  a  furious  hurry.  All  at  once  and 
before  Harran  had  a  chance  to  knock  on  the  door,  An- 
nixter  flung  it  open.  His  face  was  blazing  with  anger, 
his  outthrust  lip  more  prominent  than  ever,  his  wiry, 
yellow  hair  in  disarray,  the  tuft  on  the  crown  sticking 
straight  into  the  air  like  the  upraised  hackles  of  an  angry 
hound.  Evidently  he  had  been  dressing  himself  with  the 
most  headlong  rapidity ;  he  had  not  yet  put  on  his  coat 
and  vest,  but  carried  them  over  his  arm,  while  with  his 
disengaged  hand  he  kept  hitching  his  suspenders  over 
his  shoulders  with  a  persistent  and  hypnotic  gesture. 
Without  a  moment's  pause  he  gave  vent  to  his  indigna- 
tion in  a  torrent  of  words. 

"  Ah,  yes,  in  my  bed,  sloop,  aha!  I  know  the  man  who 
put  it  there,"  he  went  on,  glaring  at  Osterman,  "  and 
that  man  is  a  pip.  Sloop!  Slimy,  disgusting  stuff;  you 
heard  me  say  I  didn't  like  it  when  the  Chink  passed  it 
to  me  at  dinner — and  just  for  that  reason  you  put  it  in  my 
bed,  and  I  stick  my  feet  into  it  when  I  turn  in.  Funny, 
isn't  it?  Oh,  yes,  too  funny  for  any  use.  I'd  laugh  a 
little  louder  if  I  was  you." 

"  Well,  Buck,"  protested  Harran,  as  he  noticed  the 
hat  in  Annixter's  hand,  "  you're  not  going  home  just 
for— 

Annixter  turned  on  him  with  a  shout. 

"  I'll  get  plumb  out  of  here,"  he  trumpeted.  "  I  won't 
stay  here  another  minute." 

He  swung  into  his  waistcoat  and  coat,  scrabbling  at 
the  buttons  in  the  violence  of  his  emotions.  "  And  I 
don't  know  but  what  it  will  make  me  sick  again  to  go 


122  The  Octopus 

out  in  a  night  like  this.  No,  I  won't  stay.  Some  things 
are  funny,  and  then,  again,  there  are  some  things  that  are 
not.  Ah,  yes,  sloop!  Well,  that's  all  right.  I  can  be 
funny,  too,  when  you  come  to  that.  You  don't  get  a 
cent  of  money  out  of  me.  You  can  do  your  dirty  bribery 
in  your  own  dirty  way.  I  won't  come  into  this  scheme 
at  all.  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  business.  It's 
rotten  and  it's  wild-eyed;  it's  dirt  from  start  to  finish; 
and  you'll  all  land  in  State's  prison.  You  can  count  me 
out." 

"  But,  Buck,  look  here,  you  crazy  fool,"  cried  Harran, 
"  I  don't  know  who  put  that  stuff  in  your  bed,  but  I'm 
not  going  to  let  you  go  back  to  Quien  Sabe  in  a  rain  like 
this." 

"  /  know  who  put  it  in,"  clamoured  the  other,  shaking 
his  fists,  "  and  don't  call  me  Buck  and  I'll  do  as  I  please. 
I  will  go  back  home.  I'll  get  plumb  out  of  here.  Sorry 
I  came.  Sorry  I  ever  lent  myself  to  such  a  disgusting, 
dishonest,  dirty  bribery  game  as  this  all  to-night.  I  won't 
put  a  dime  into  it,  no,  not  a  penny." 

He  stormed  to  the  door  leading  out  upon  the  porch, 
deaf  to  all  reason.  Harran  and  Presley  followed  him, 
trying  to  dissuade  him  from  going  home  at  that  time  of 
night  and  in  such  a  storm,  but  Annixter  was  not  to  be 
placated.  He  stamped  across  to  the  barn  where  his 
horse  and  buggy  had  been  stabled,  splashing  through  the 
puddles  under  foot,  going  out  of  his  way  to  drench  him- 
self, refusing  even  to  allow  Presley  and  Harran  to  help 
him  harness  the  horse. 

"  What's  the  use  of  making  a  fool  of  yourself,  Annix- 
ter ?  "  remonstrated  Presley,  as  Annixter  backed  the 
horse  from  the  stall.  "  You  act  just  like  a  ten-year-old 
boy.  If  Osterman  wants  to  play  the  goat,  why  should 
you  help  him  out  ?  " 

"He's   a  pip"   vociferated   Annixter.      "You   don't 


A  Story  of  California  123 

understand,  Presley.  It  runs  in  my  family  to  hate  any- 
thing sticky.  It's — it's — it's  heredity.  How  would  you 
like  to  get  into  bed  at  two  in  the  morning  and  jam  your 
feet  down  into  a  slimy  mess  like  that?  Oh,  no.  It's  not 
so  funny  then.  And  you  mark  my  words,  Mr.  Harran 
Derrick,"  he  continued,  as  he  climbed  into  the  buggy, 
shaking  the  whip  toward  Harran,  "  this  business  we 
talked  over  to-night — I'm  out  of  it.  It's  yellow.  It's  too 
cursed  dishonest." 

He  cut  the  horse  across  the  back  with  the  whip  and 
drove  out  into  the  pelting  rain.  In  a  few  seconds  the 
sound  of  his  buggy  wheels  was  lost  in  the  muffled  roar 
of  the  downpour. 

Harran  and  Presley  closed  the  barn  and  returned  to 
the  house,  sheltering  themselves  under  a  tarpaulin  car- 
riage cover.  Once  inside,  Harran  went  to  remonstrate 
with  Osterman,  who  was  still  up.  Magnus  had  again 
retired.  The  house  had  fallen  quiet  again. 

As  Presley  crossed  the  dining-room  on  the  way  to  his 
own  apartment  in  the  second  story  of  the  house,  he 
paused  for  a  moment,  looking  about  him.  In  the  dull 
light  of  the  lowered  lamps,  the  redwood  panelling  of 
the  room  showed  a  dark  crimson  as  though  stained 
with  blood.  On  the  massive  slab  of  the  dining  table  the 
half-emptied  glasses  and  bottles  stood  about  in  the  con- 
fusion in  which  they  had  been  left,  reflecting  themselves 
deep  into  the  polished  wood;  the  glass  doors  of  the  case 
of  stuffed  birds  was  a  subdued  shimmer;  the  many- 
coloured  Navajo  blanket  over  the  couch  seemed  a  mere 
patch  of  brown. 

Around  the  table  the  chairs  in  which  the  men  had  sat 
throughout  the  evening  still  ranged  themselves  in  a  semi- 
circle, vaguely  suggestive  of  the  conference  of  the  past 
few  hours,  with  all  its  possibilities  of  good  and  evil,  its 
significance  of  a  future  big  with  portent.  The  room  was 


124  The  Octopus 

still.  Only  on  the  cushions  of  the  chair  that  Annixter 
had  occupied,  the  cat,  Princess  Nathalie,  at  last  comfort- 
ably settled  in  her  accustomed  place,  dozed  complacently, 
her  paws  tucked  under  her  breast,  rilling  the  deserted 
room  with  the  subdued  murmur  of  her  contented  purr. 


IV 


On  the  Quien  Sabe  ranch,  in  one  of  its  western  divi- 
sions, near  the  line  fence  that  divided  it  from  the  Oster- 
man  holding,  Vanamee  was  harnessing  the  horses  to  the 
plough  to  which  he  had  been  assigned  two  days  before, 
a  stable-boy  from  the  division  barn  helping  him. 

Promptly  discharged  from  the  employ  of  the  sheep- 
raisers  after  the  lamentable  accident  near  the  Long 
Trestle,  Vanamee  had  presented  himself  to  Harran,  ask- 
ing for  employment.  The  season  was  beginning;  on  all 
the  ranches  work  was  being  resumed.  The  rain  had  put 
the  ground  into  admirable  condition  for  ploughing,  and 
Annixter,  Broderson,  and  Osterman  all  had  their  gangs 
at  work.  Thus,  Vanamee  was  vastly  surprised  to  find 
Los  Muertos  idle,  the  horses  still  in  the  barns,  the  men 
gathering  in  the  shade  of  the  bunk-house  and  eating- 
house,  smoking,  dozing,  or  going  aimlessly  about,  their 
arms  dangling.  The  ploughs  for  which  Magnus  and 
Harran  were  waiting  in  a  fury  of  impatience  had  not  yet 
arrived,  and  since  the  management  of  Los  Muertos  had 
counted  upon  having  these  in  hand  long  before  this  time, 
no  provision  had  been  made  for  keeping  the  old  stock  in 
repair;  many  of  these  old  ploughs  were  useless,  broken, 
and  out  of  order;  some  had  been  sold.  It  could  not  be 
said  definitely  when  the  new  ploughs  would  arrive.  Har- 
ran had  decided  to  wait  one  week  longer,  and  then,  in 
case  of  their  non-appearance,  to  buy  a  consignment  of 
the  old  style  of  plough  from  the  dealers  in  Bonneville. 
He  could  afford  to  lose  the  money  better  than  he  could 
afford  to  lose  the  season. 


126  The  Octopus 

Failing  of  work  on  Los  Muertos,  Vanamee  had  gone 
to  Quien  Sabe.  Annixter,  whom  he  had  spoken  to  first, 
had  sent  him  across  the  ranch  to  one  of  his  division 
superintendents,  and  this  latter,  after  assuring  himself 
of  Vanamee's  familiarity  with  horses  and  his  previous 
experience — even  though  somewhat  remote — on  Los 
Muertos,  had  taken  him  on  as  a  driver  of  one  of  the 
gang  ploughs,  then  at  work  on  his  division. 

The  evening  before,  when  the  foreman  had  blown  his 
whistle  at  six  o'clock,  the  long  line  of  ploughs  had  halted 
upon  the  instant,  and  the  drivers,  unharnessing  their 
teams,  had  taken  them  back  to  the  division  barns — leav- 
ing the  ploughs  as  they  were  in  the  furrows.  But  an  hour 
after  daylight  the  next  morning  the  work  was  resumed. 
After  breakfast,  Vanamee,  riding  one  horse  and  leading 
the  others,  had  returned  to  the  line  of  ploughs  together 
with  the  other  drivers.  Now  he  was  busy  harnessing 
the  team.  At  the  division  blacksmith  shop — tempora- 
rily put  up — he  had  been  obliged  to  wait  while  one  of  his 
lead  horses  was  shod,  and  he  had  thus  been  delayed  quite 
five  minutes.  Nearly  all  the  other  teams  were  har- 
nessed, the  drivers  on  their  seats,  waiting  for  the  fore- 
man's signal. 

"  All  ready  here?  "  inquired  the  foreman,  driving  up  to 
Vanamee's  team  in  his  buggy. 

"  All  ready,  sir,"  answered  Vanamee,  buckling  the  last 
strap. 

He  climbed  to  his  seat,  shaking  out  the  reins,  and  turn- 
ing about,  looked  back  along  the  line,  then  all  around 
him  at  the  landscape  inundated  with  the  brilliant  glow  of 
the  early  morning. 

The  day  was  fine.  Since  the  first  rain  of  the  season, 
there  had  been  no  other.  Now  the  sky  was  without  a 
cloud,  pale  blue,  delicate,  luminous,  scintillating  with 
morning.  The  great  brown  earth  turned  a  huge  flank  to 


A  Story  of  California  127 

it,  exhaling  the  moisture  of  the  early  dew.  The  atmos- 
phere, washed  clean  of  dust  and  mist,  was  translucent  as 
crystal.  Far  off  to  the  east,  the  hills  on  the  other  side 
of  Broderson  Creek  stood  out  against  the  pallid  saffron 
of  the  horizon  as  flat  and  as  sharply  outlined  as  if  pasted 
on  the  sky.  The  campanile  of  the  ancient  Mission  of 
San  Juan  seemed  as  fine  as  frost  work.  All  about  be- 
tween the  horizons,  the  carpet  of  the  land  unrolled  itself 
to  infinity.  But  now  it  was  no  longer  parched  with  heat, 
cracked  and  warped  by  a  merciless  sun,  powdered  with 
dust.  The  rain  had  done  its  work;  not  a  clod  that  was 
not  swollen  with  fertility,  not  a  fissure  that  did  not  exhale 
the  sense  of  fecundity.  One  could  not  take  a  dozen 
steps  upon  the  ranches  without  the  brusque  sensation 
that  underfoot  the  land  was  alive ;  roused  at  last  from  its 
sleep,  palpitating  with  the  desire  of  reproduction.  Deep 
down  there  in  the  recesses  of  the  soil,  the  great  heart 
throbbed  once  more,  thrilling  with  passion,  vibrating 
with  desire,  offering  itself  to  the  caress  of  the  plough, 
insistent,  eager,  imperious.  Dimly  one  felt  the  deep- 
seated  trouble  of  the  earth,  the  uneasy  agitation  of  its 
members,  the  hidden  tumult  of  its  womb,  demanding  to 
be  made  fruitful,  to  reproduce,  to  disengage  the  eternal 
renascent  germ  of  Life  that  stirred  and  struggled  in  its 
loins. 

The  ploughs,  thirty-five  in  number,  each  drawn  by  its 
team  of  ten,  stretched  in  an  interminable  line,  nearly  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  in  length,  behind  and  ahead  of  Van- 
amee.  They  were  arranged,  as  it  were,  en  echelon,  not  in 
file — not  one  directly  behind  the  other,  but  each  succeed- 
ing plough  its  own  width  farther  in  the  field  than  the  one 
in  front  of  it.  Each  of  these  ploughs  held  five  shears, 
so  that  when  the  entire  company  was  in  motion,  one  hun- 
dred and  seventy-five  furrows  were  made  at  the  same 
instant.  At  a  distance,  the  ploughs  resembled  a  great 


128  The  Octopus 

column  of  field  artillery.  Each  driver  was  in  his  place, 
his  glance  alternating  between  his  horses  and  the  fore- 
man nearest  at  hand.  Other  foremen,  in  their  buggies 
or  buckboards,  were  at  intervals  along  the  line,  like 
battery  lieutenant*.  Annixter  himself,  on  horseback,  in 
boots  and  campaign  hat,  a  cigar  in  his  teeth,  overlooked 
the  scene. 

The  division  superintendent,  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  line,  galloped  past  to  a  position  at  the  head.  For  a 
long  moment  there  was  a  silence.  A  sense  of  prepared- 
ness ran  from  end  to  end  of  the  column.  All  things  were 
ready,  each  man  in  his  place.  The  day's  work  was  about 
to  begin. 

Suddenly,  from  a  distance  at  the  head  of  the  line  came 
the  shrill  trilling  of  a  whistle.  At  once  the  foreman  near- 
est Vanamee  repeated  it,  at  the  same  time  turning  down 
the  line,  and  waving  one  arm.  The  signal  was  repeated, 
whistle  answering  whistle,  till  the  sounds  lost  themselves 
in  the  distance.  At  once  the  line  of  ploughs  lost  its  im- 
mobility, moving  forward,  getting  slowly  under  way,  the 
horses  straining  in  the  traces.  A  prolonged  movement 
rippled  from  team  to  team,  disengaging  in  its  passage  a 
multitude  of  sounds — -the  click  of  buckles,  the  creak  of 
straining  leather,  the  subdued  clash  of  machinery,  the 
cracking  of  whips,  the  deep  breathing  of  nearly  four  hun- 
dred horses,  the  abrupt  commands  and  cries  of  the  driv- 
ers, and,  last  of  all,  the  prolonged,  soothing  murmur  of 
the  thick  brown  earth  turning  steadily  from  the  multi- 
tude of  advancing  shears. 

The  ploughing  thus  commenced,  continued.  The  sun 
rose  higher.  Steadily  the  hundred  iron  hands  kneaded 
and  furrowed  and  stroked  the  brown,  humid  earth,  the 
hundred  iron  teeth  bit  deep  into  the  Titan's  flesh. 
Perched  on  his  seat,  the  moist  living  reins  slipping  and 
tugging  in  his  hands,  Vanamee,  in  the  midst  of  this 


A  Story  of  California  129 

steady  confusion  of  constantly  varying  sensation,  sight 
interrupted  by  sound,  sound  mingling  with  sight,  on  this 
swaying,  vibrating  seat,  quivering  with  the  prolonged 
thrill  of  the  earth,  lapsed  to  a  sort  of  pleasing  numbness, 
in  a  sense,  hypnotised  by  the  weaving  maze  of  things  in 
which  he  found  himself  involved.  To  keep  his  team  at 
an  even,  regular  gait,  maintaining  the  precise  interval, 
to  run  his  furrows  as  closely  as  possible  to  those  already 
made  by  the  plough  in  front — this  for  the  moment  was 
the  entire  sum  of  his  duties.  But  while  one  part  of  his 
brain,  alert  and  watchful,  took  cognisance  of  these  mat- 
ters, all  the  greater  part  was  lulled  and  stupefied  with  the 
long  monotony  of  the  affair. 

The  ploughing,  now  in  full  swing,  enveloped  him  in  a 
vague,  slow-moving  whirl  of  things.  Underneath  him 
was  the  jarring,  jolting,  trembling  machine;  not  a  clod 
was  turned,  not  an  obstacle  encountered,  that  he  did  not 
receive  the  swift  impression  of  it  through  all  his  body, 
the  very  friction  of  the  damp  soil,  sliding  incessantly 
from  the  shiny  surface  of  the  shears,  seemed  to  repro- 
duce itself  in  his  finger-tips  and  along  the  back  of  his 
head.  He  heard  the  horse-hoofs  by  the  myriads  crush- 
ing down  easily,  deeply,  into  the  loam,  the  prolonged 
clinking  of  trace-chains,  the  working-  of  the  smooth 
brown  flanks  in  the  harness,  the  clatter  of  wooden  hames, 
the  champing  of  bits,  the  click  of  iron  shoes  against 
pebbles,  the  brittle  stubble  of  the  surface  ground  crack- 
ling and  snapping  as  the  furrows  turned,  the  sonorous, 
steady  breaths  wrenched  from  the  deep, labouring  chests, 
strap-bound,  shining  with  sweat,  and  all  along  the  line 
the  voices  of  the  men  talking  to  the  horses.  Everywhere 
there  were  visions  of  glossy  brown  backs,  straining, 
heaving,  swollen  with  muscle;  harness  streaked  with 
specks  of  froth,  broad,  cup-shaped  hoofs,  heavy  with 
brown  loam,  men's  faces  red  with  tan,  blue  overalls 


130  The  Octopus 

spotted  with  axle-grease;  muscled  hands,  the  knuckles 
whitened  in  their  grip  on  the  reins,  and  through  it  all 
the  ammoniacal  smell  of  the  horses,  the  bitter  reek  of 
perspiration  of  beasts  and  men,  the  aroma  of  warm 
leather,  the  scent  of  dead  stubble — and  stronger  and 
more  penetrating  than  everything  else,  the  heavy,  ener- 
vating odour  of  the  upturned,  living  earth. 

At  intervals,  from  the  tops  of  one  of  the  rare,  low 
swells  of  the  land,  Vanamee  overlooked  a  wider  horizon. 
On  the  other  divisions  of  Quien  Sabe  the  same  work  was 
in  progress.  Occasionally  he  could  see  another  column 
of  ploughs  in  the  adjoining  division — sometimes  so  close 
at  hand  that  the  subdued  murmur  of  its  movements 
reached  his  ear;  sometimes  so  distant  that  it  resolved  it- 
self into  a  long,  brown  streak  upon  the  grey  of  the 
ground.  Farther  off  to  the  west  on  the  Osterman  ranch 
other  columns  came  and  went,  and,  once,  from  the  crest 
of  the  highest  swell  on  his  division,  Vanamee  caught  a 
distant  glimpse  of  the  Broderson  ranch.  There,  too, 
moving  specks  indicated  that  the  ploughing  was  under 
way.  And  farther  away  still,  far  off  there  beyond  the 
fine  line  of  the  horizons,  over  the  curve  of  the  globe,  the 
shoulder  of  the  earth,  he  knew  were  other  ranches,  and 
beyond  these  others,  and  beyond  these  still  others,  the 
immensities  multiplying  to  infinity. 

Everywhere  throughout  the  great  San  Joaquin,  unseen 
and  unheard,  a  thousand  ploughs  up-stirred  the  land, 
tens  of  thousands  of  shears  clutched  deep  into  the  warm, 
moist  soil. 

It  was  the  long  stroking  caress,  vigorous,  male, 
powerful,  for  which  the  Earth  seemed  panting.  The 
heroic  embrace  of  a  multitude  of  iron  hands,  gripping 
deep  into  the  brown,  warm  flesh  of  the  land  that  quivered 
responsive  and  passionate  under  this  rude  advance,  so 
robust  as  to  be  almost  an  assault,  so  violent  as  to  be 


A  Story  of  California  131 

veritably  brutal.  There,  under  the  sun  and  under  the 
speckless  sheen  of  the  sky,  the  wooing  of  the  Titan  be- 
gan, the  vast  primal  passion,  the  two  world-forces,  the 
elemental  Male  and  Female,  locked  in  a  colossal  em- 
brace, at  grapples  in  the  throes  of  an  infinite  desire,  at 
once  terrible  and  divine,  knowing  no  law,  untamed,  sav- 
age, natural,  sublime. 

From  time  to  time  the  gang  in  which  Vanamee  worked 
halted  on  the  signal  from  foreman  or  overseer.  The 
horses  came  to  a  standstill,  the  vague  clamour  of  the 
work  lapsed  away.  Then  the  minutes  passed.  The 
whole  work  hung  suspended.  All  up  and  down  the  line 
one  demanded  what  had  happened.  The  division  super- 
intendent galloped  past,  perplexed  and  anxious.  For 
the  moment,  one  of  the  ploughs  was  out  of  order,  a  bolt 
had  slipped,  a  lever  refused  to  work,  or  a  machine  had 
become  immobilised  in  heavy  ground,  or  a  horse  had 
lamed  himself.  Once,  even,  toward  noon,  an  entire 
plough  was  taken  out  of  the  line,  so  out  of  gear  that  a 
messenger  had  to  be  sent  to  the  division  forge  to  sum- 
mon the  machinist. 

Annixter  had  disappeared.  He  had  ridden  farther 
on  to  the  other  divisions  of  his  ranch,  to  watch  the  work 
in  progress  there.  At  twelve  o'clock,  according  to  his 
orders,  all  the  division  superintendents  put  themselves 
in  communication  with  him  by  means  of  the  telephone 
wires  that  connected  each  of  the  division  houses,  report- 
ing the  condition  of  the  work,  the  number  of  acres  cov- 
ered, the  prospects  of  each  plough  traversing  its  daily 
average  of  twenty  miles. 

At  half-past  twelve,  Vanamee  and  the  rest  of  the  driv- 
ers ate  their  lunch  in  the  field,  the  tin  buckets  having 
been  distributed  to  them  that  morning  after  breakfast. 
But  in  the  evening,  the  routine  of  the  previous  day  was 
repeated,  and  Vanamee,  unharnessing  his  team,  riding 


132  The  Octopus 

one  horse  and  leading  the  others,  returned  to  the  division 
barns  and  bunk-house. 

It  was  between  six  and  seven  o'clock.  The  half  hun- 
dred men  of  the  gang  threw  themselves  upon  the  supper 
the  Chinese  cooks  had  set  out  in  the  shed  of  the  eating- 
house,  long  as  a  bowling  alley,  unpainted,  crude,  the 
seats  benches,  the  table  covered  with  oil  cloth.  Over- 
head a  half-dozen  kerosene  lamps  flared  and  smoked. 

The  table  was  taken  as  if  by  assault;  the  clatter  of  iron 
knives  upon  the  tin  plates  was  as  the  reverberation  of 
hail  upon  a  metal  roof.  The  ploughmen  rinsed  their 
throats  with  great  draughts  of  wine,  and,  their  elbows 
wide,  their  foreheads  flushed,  resumed  the  attack  upon 
the  beef  and  bread,  eating  as  though  they  would  never 
have  enough.  All  up  and  down  the  long  table,  where 
the  kerosene  lamps  reflected  themselves  deep  in  the  oil- 
cloth cover,  one  heard  the  incessant  sounds  of  mastica- 
tion, and  saw  the  uninterrupted  movement  of  great  jaws. 
At  every  moment  one  or  another  of  the  men  demanded 
a  fresh  portion  of  beef,  another  pint  of  wine,  another 
half-loaf  of  bread.  For  upwards  of  an  hour  the  gang 
ate.  It  was  no  longer  a  supper.  It  was  a  veritable 
barbecue,  a  crude  and  primitive  feasting,  barbaric, 
homeric. 

But  in  all  this  scene  Vanamee  saw  nothing  repulsive. 
Presley  would  have  abhorred  it — this  feeding  of  the 
People,  this  gorging  of  the  human  animal,  eager  for  its 
meat.  Vanamee,  simple,  uncomplicated,  living  so  close 
to  nature  and  the  rudimentary  life,  understood  its  sig- 
nificance. He  knew  very  well  that  within  a  short  half- 
hour  after  this  meal  the  men  would  throw  themselves 
down  in  their  bunks  to  sleep  without  moving,  inert  and 
stupefied  with  fatigue,  till  the  morning.  Work,  food, 
and  sleep,  all  life  reduced  to  its  bare  essentials,  uncom- 
plex,  honest,  healthy.  They  were  strong,  these  men, 


A  Story  of  California  133 

with  the  strength  of  the  soil  they  worked,  in  touch  with 
the  essential  things,  back  again  to  the  starting  point  of 
civilisation,  coarse,  vital,  real,  and  sane. 

For  a  brief  moment  immediately  after  the  meal,  pipes 
were  lit,  and  the  air  grew  thick  with  fragrant  tobacco 
smoke.  On  a  corner  of  the  dining-room  table,  a  game 
of  poker  was  begun.  One  of  the  drivers,  a  Swede,  pro- 
duced an  accordion;  a  group  on  the  steps  of  the  bunk- 
house  listened,  with  alternate  gravity  and  shouts  of 
laughter,  to  the  acknowledged  story-teller  of  the  gang. 
But  soon  the  men  began  to  turn  in,  stretching  them- 
selves at  full  length  on  the  horse  blankets  in  the  racklike 
bunks.  The  sounds  of  heavy  breathing  increased  stead- 
ily, lights  were  put  out,  and  before  the  afterglow  had 
faded  from  the  sky,  the  gang  was  asleep. 

Vanamee,  however,  remained  awake.  The  night  was 
fine,  warm;  the  sky  silver-grey  with  starlight.  By  and 
by  there  would  be  a  moon.  In  the  first  watch  after  the 
twilight,  a  faint  puff  of  breeze  came  up  out  of  the  south. 
From  all  around,  the  heavy  penetrating  smell  of  the  new- 
turned  earth  exhaled  steadily  into  the  darkness.  After 
a  while,  when  the  moon  came  up,  he  could  see  the  vast 
brown  breast  of  the  earth  turn  toward  it.  Far  off,  dis- 
tant objects  came  into  view:  The  giant  oak  tree  at 
Hooven's  ranch  house  near  the  irrigating  ditch  on  Los 
Muertos,  the  skeleton-like  tower  of  the  windmill  on  An- 
nixter's  Home  ranch,  the  clump  of  willows  along  Broder- 
son  Creek  close  to  the  Long  Trestle,  and,  last  of  all,  the 
venerable  tower  of  the  Mission  of  San  Juan  on  the  high 
ground  beyond  the  creek. 

Thitherward,  like  homing  pigeons,  Vanamee's 
thoughts  turned  irresistibly.  Near  to  that  tower,  just 
beyond,  in  the  little  hollow,  hidden  now  from  his  sight, 
was  the  Seed  ranch  where  Angel  e  Varian  had  lived. 
Straining  his  eyes,  peering  across  the  intervening  levels, 


134  The  Octopus 

Vanamee  fancied  he  could  almost  see  the  line  of  vener- 
able pear  trees  in  whose  shadow  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  wait  for  him.  On  many  such  a  night  as  this 
he  had  crossed  the  ranches  to  find  her  there.  His  mind 
went  back  to  that  wonderful  time  of  his  life  sixteen 
years  before  this,  when  Angele  was  alive,  when  they  two 
were  involved  in  the  sweet  intricacies  of  a  love  so  fine, 
so  pure,  so  marvellous  that  it  seemed  to  them  a  miracle, 
a  manifestation,  a  thing  veritably  divine,  put  into  the  life 
of  them  and  the  hearts  of  them  by  God  Himself.  To 
that  they  had  been  born.  For  this  love's  sake  they  had 
come  into  the  world,  and  the  mingling  of  their  lives  was 
to  be  the  Perfect  Life,  the  intended,  ordained  union  of 
the  soul  of  man  with  the  soul  of  woman,  indissoluble, 
harmonious  as  music,  beautiful  beyond  all  thought,  a 
foretaste  of  Heaven,  a  hostage  of  immortality. 

No,  he,  Vanamee,  could  never,  never  forget;  never  was 
the  edge  of  his  grief  to  lose  its  sharpness;  never  would 
the  lapse  of  time  blunt  the  tooth  of  his  pain.  Once 
more,  as  he  sat  there,  looking  off  across  the  ranches,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  ancient  campanile  of  the  Mission 
church,  the  anguish  that  would  not  die  leaped  at  his 
throat,  tearing  at  his  heart,  shaking  him  and  rending 
him  with  a  violence  as  fierce  and  as  profound  as  if  it  all 
had  been  but  yesterday.  The  ache  returned  to  his  heart, 
a  physical  keen  pain;  his  hands  gripped  tight  together, 
twisting,  interlocked,  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  his  whole 
body  shaken  and  riven  from  head  to  heel. 

He  had  lost  her.  God  had  not  meant  it,  after  all.  The 
whole  matter  had  been  a  mistake.  That  vast,  wonderful 
love  that  had  come  upon  them  had  been  only  the  flimsiest 
mockery.  Abruptly  Vanamee  rose.  He  knew  the  night 
that  was  before  him.  At  intervals  throughout  the  course 
of  his  prolonged  wanderings,  in  the  desert,  on  the  mesa, 
deep  in  the  canon,  lost  and  forgotten  on  the  flanks  of 


A  Story  of  California  135 

unnamed  mountains,  alone  under  the  stars  and  under 
the  moon's  white  eye,  these  hours  came  to  him,  his 
grief  recoiling-  upon  him  like  the  recoil  of  a  vast  and 
terrible  engine.  Then  he  must  fight  out  the  night, 
wrestling  with  his  sorrow,  praying  sometimes,  inco- 
herent, hardly  conscious,  asking  "  Why  "  of  the  night 
and  of  the  stars. 

Such  another  night  had  come  to  him  now.  Until  dawn 
he  knew  he  must  struggle  with  his  grief,  torn  with  memo- 
ries, his  imagination  assaulted  with  visions  of  a  vanished 
happiness.  If  this  paroxysm  of  sorrow  was  to  assail  him 
again  that  night,  there  was  but  one  place  for  him  to  be. 
He  would  go  to  the  Mission — he  would  see  Father  Sar- 
ria;  he  would  pass  the  night  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the 
aged  pear  trees  in  the  Mission  garden. 

He  struck  out  across  Quien  Sabe,  his  face,  the  face  of 
an  ascetic,  lean,  brown,  infinitely  sad,  set  toward  the 
Mission  church.  In  about  an  hour  he  reached  and 
crossed  the  road  that  led  northward  from  Guadalajara 
toward  the  Seed  ranch,  and,  a  little  farther  on,  forded 
Broderson  Creek  where  it  ran  through  one  corner  of  the 
Mission  land.  He  climbed  the  hill  and  halted,  out  of 
breath  from  his  brisk  wall,  at  the  end  of  the  colonnade 
of  the  Mission  itself. 

Until  this  moment  Vanamee  had  not  trusted  himself 
to  see  the  Mission  at  night.  On  the  occasion  of  his  first 
daytime  visit  with  Presley,  he  had  hurried  away  even 
before  the  twilight  had  set  in,  not  daring  for  the  moment 
to  face  the  crowding  phantoms  that  in  his  imagination 
filled  the  Mission  garden  after  dark.  In  the  daylight, 
the  place  had  seemed  strange  to  him.  None  of  his  asso- 
ciations with  the  old  building  and  its  surroundings  were 
those  of  sunlight  and  brightness.  Whenever,  during  his 
long  sojourns  in  the  wilderness  of  the  Southwest,  he  had 
called  up  the  picture  in  the  eye  of  his  mind,  it  had  always 


136  The  Octopus 

appeared  to  him  in  the  dim  mystery  of  moonless  nights, 
the  venerable  pear  trees  black  with  shadow,  the  fountain 
a  thing  to  be  heard  rather  than  seen. 

But  as  yet  he  had  not  entered  the  garden.  That  lay 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Mission.  Vanamee  passed  down 
the  colonnade,  with  its  uneven  pavement  of  worn  red 
bricks,  to  the  last  door  by  the  belfry  tower,  and  rang  the 
little  bell  by  pulling  the  leather  thong  that  hung  from  a 
hole  in  the  door  above  the  knob. 

But  the  maid-servant,  who,  after  a  long  interval, 
opened  the  door,  blinking  and  confused  at  being  roused 
from  her  sleep,  told  Vanamee  that  Sarria  was  not  in  his 
room.  Vanamee,  however,  was  known  to  her  as  the 
priest's  protege  and  great  friend,  and  she  allowed  him  to 
enter,  telling  him  that,  no  doubt,  he  would  find  Sarria  in 
the  church  itself.  The  servant  led  the  way  down  the  cool 
adobe  passage  to  a  larger  room  that  occupied  the  entire 
width  of  the  bottom  of  the  belfry  tower,  and  whence  a 
flight  of  aged  steps  led  upward  into  the  dark.  At  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  was  a  door  opening  into  the  church. 
The  servant  admitted  Vanamee,  closing  the  door  behind 
her. 

The  interior  of  the  Mission,  a  great  oblong  of  white- 
washed adobe  with  a  flat  ceiling,  was  lighted  dimly  by 
the  sanctuary  lamp  that  hung  from  three  long  chains 
just  over  the  chancel  rail  at  the  far  end  of  the  church,  and 
by  two  or  three  cheap  kerosene  lamps  in  brackets  of  imi- 
tation bronze.  All  around  the  walls  was  the  inevitable 
series  of  pictures  representing  the  Stations  of  the  Cross. 
They  were  of  a  hideous  crudity  of  design  and  composi- 
tion, yet  were  wrought  out  with  an  innocent,  unquestion- 
ing sincerity  that  was  not  without  its  charm.  Each  pic- 
ture framed  alike  in  gilt,  bore  its  suitable  inscription  in 
staring  black  letters.  "  Simon,  The  Cyrenean,  Helps 
Jesus  to  Carry  His  Cross."  "  Saint  Veronica  Wipes  the 


A  Story  of  California  137 

Face  of  Jesus."  "  Jesus  Falls  for  the  Fourth  Time,"  and 
so  on.  Half-way  up  the  length  of  the  church  the  pews 
began,  coffin-like  boxes  of  blackened  oak,  shining  from 
years  of  friction,  each  with  its  door;  while  over  them,  and 
built  out  from  the  wall,  was  the  pulpit,  with  its  tarnished 
gilt  sounding-board  above  it,  like  the  raised  cover  of  a 
great  hat-box.  Between  the  pews,  in  the  aisle,  the  violent 
vermilion  of  a  strip  of  ingrain  carpet  assaulted  the  eye. 
Farther  on  were  the  steps  to  the  altar,  the  chancel  rail  of 
worm-riddled  oak,  the  high  altar,  with  its  napery  from 
the  bargain  counters  of  a  San  Francisco  store,  the  mas- 
sive silver  candlesticks,  each  as  much  as  one  man  could 
lift,  the  gift  of  a  dead  Spanish  queen,  and,  last,  the  pic- 
tures of  the  chancel,  the  Virgin  in  a  glory,  a  Christ  in 
agony  on  the  cross,  and  St.  John  the  Baptist,  the  patron 
saint  of  the  Mission,  the  San  Juan  Bautista,  of  the  early 
days,  a  gaunt  grey  figure,  in  skins,  two  fingers  upraised 
in  the  gesture  of  benediction. 

The  air  of  the  place  was  cool  and  damp,  and  heavy 
with  the  flat,  sweet  scent  of  stale  incense  smoke.  It  was 
of  a  vault-like  stillness,  and  the  closing  of  the  door  be- 
hind Vanamee  reechoed  from  corner  to  corner  with  a 
prolonged  reverberation  of  thunder. 

However,  Father  Sarria  was  not  in  the  church.  Van- 
amee took  a  couple  of  turns  the  length  of  the  aisle,  look- 
ing about  into  the  chapels  on  either  side  of  the  chancel. 
But  the  building  was  deserted.  The  priest  had  been 
there  recently,  nevertheless,  for  the  altar  furniture  was 
in  disarray,  as  though  he  had  been  rearranging  it  but  a 
moment  before.  On  both  sides  of  the  church  and  half- 
way up  their  length,  the  walls  were  pierced  by  low  arch- 
ways, in  which  were  massive  wooden  doors,  clamped 
with  iron  bolts.  One  of  these  doors,  on  the  pulpit  side 
of  the  church,  stood  ajar,  and  stepping  to  it  and  pushing 
it  wide  open,  Vanamee  looked  diagonally  across  a  little 


The  Octopus 

patch  of  vegetables — beets,  radishes,  and  lettuce — to  the 
rear  of  the  building  that  had  once  contained  the  cloisters, 
and  through  an  open  window  saw  Father  Sarria  dili- 
gently polishing  the  silver  crucifix  that  usually  stood  on 
the  high  altar.  Vanamee  did  not  call  to  the  priest.  Put- 
ting a  finger  to  either  temple,  he  fixed  his  eyes  steadily 
upon  him  for  a  moment  as  he  moved  about  at  his  work. 
In  a  few  seconds  he  closed  his  eyes,  but  only  part  way. 
The  pupils  contracted;  his  forehead  lowered  to  an  ex- 
pression of  poignant  intensity.  Soon  afterward  he  saw 
the  priest  pause  abruptly  in  the  act  of  drawing  the  cover 
over  the  crucifix,  looking  about  him  from  side  to  side. 
He  turned  again  to  his  work,  and  again  came  to  a  stop, 
perplexed,  curious.  With  uncertain  steps,  and  evidently 
wondering  why  he  did  so,  he  came  to  the  door  of  the 
room  and  opened  it,  looking  out  into  the  night.  Van- 
amee, hidden  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  archway,  did  not 
move,  but  his  eyes  closed,  and  the  intense  expression 
deepened  on  his  face.  The  priest  hesitated,  moved  for- 
ward a  step,  turned  back,  paused  again,  then  came 
straight  across  the  garden  patch,  brusquely  colliding 
with  Vanamee,  still  motionless  in  the  recess  of  the  arch- 
way. 

Sarria  gave  a  great  start,  catching  his  breath. 

"  Oh — oh,  it's  you.  Was  it  you  I  heard  calling  ?  No, 
I  could  not  have  heard — I  remember  now.  What  a 
strange  power !  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  right  to  do  this 
thing,  Vanamee.  I — I  had  to  come.  I  do  not  know  why. 
It  is  a  great  force — a  power — I  don't  like  it.  Vanamee, 
sometimes  it  frightens  me." 

Vanamee  put  his  chin  in  the  air. 

"  If  I  had  wanted  to,  sir,  I  could  have  made  you  come 
to  me  from  back  there  in  the  Quien  Sabe  ranch." 

The  priest  shook  his  head. 

"  It  troubles  me,"  he  said,  "  to  think  that  my  own  will 


A  Story  of  California  139 

can  count  for  so  little.  Jnst  now  I  could  not  resist.  If  a 
deep  river  had  been  between  us,  I  must  have  crossed  it. 
Suppose  I  had  been  asleep  now?  " 

"  It  would  have  been  all  the  easier,"  answered  Van- 
amee.  "  I  understand  as  little  of  these  things  as  you.  But 
I  think  if  you  had  been  asleep,  your  power  of  resistance 
would  have  been  so  much  the  more  weakened." 

"  Perhaps  I  should  not  have  waked.  Perhaps  I  should 
have  come  to  you  in  my  sleep." 

"  Perhaps." 

Sarria  crossed  himself.  "  It  is  occult,"  he  hazarded. 
"  No ;  I  do  not  like  it.  Dear  fellow,"  he  put  his  hand 
on  Vanamee's  shoulder,  "don't — call  me  that  way  again ; 
promise.  See,"  he  held  out  his  hand,  "  I  am  all  of  a 
tremble.  There,  we  won't  speak  of  it  further.  Wait 
for  me  a  moment.  I  have  only  to  put  the  cross  in  its 
place,  and  a  fresh  altar  cloth,  and  then  I  am  done.  To- 
morrow is  the  feast  of  The  Holy  Cross,  and  I  am  prepar- 
ing against  it.  The  night  is  fine.  We  will  smoke  a  cigar 
in  the  cloister  garden." 

A  few  moments  later  the  two  passed  out  of  the  door  on 
the  other  side  of  the  church,  opposite  the  pulpit,  Sarria 
adjusting  a  silk  skull  cap  on  his  tonsured  head.  He  wore 
his  cassock  now,  and  was  far  more  the  churchman  in  ap- 
pearance than  when  Vanamee  and  Presley  had  seen  him 
on  a  former  occasion. 

They  were  now  in  the  cloister  garden.  The  place  was 
charming.  Everywhere  grew  clumps  of  palms  and  mag- 
nolia trees.  A  grapevine,  over  a  century  old,  occupied  a 
trellis  in  one  angle  of  the  walls  which  surrounded  the 
garden  on  two  sides.  Along  the  third  side  was  the 
church  itself,  while  the  fourth  was  open,  the  wall  having 
crumbled  away,  its  site  marked  only  by  a  line  of  eight 
great  pear  trees,  older  even  than  the  grapevine, 
gnarled,  twisted,  bearing  no  fruit.  Directly  opposite 


140  The  Octopus 

the  pear  trees,  in  the  south  wall  of  the  garden,  was  a 
round,  arched  portal,  whose  gate  giving  upon  the  espla- 
nade in  front  of  the  Mission  was  always  closed.  Small 
gravelled  walks,  well  kept,  bordered  with  mignonette, 
twisted  about  among  the  flower  beds,  and  underneath 
the  magnolia  trees.  In  the  centre  was  a  little  fountain 
in  a  stone  basin  green  with  moss,  while  just  beyond, 
between  the  fountain  and  the  pear  trees,  stood  what  was 
left  of  a  sun  dial,  the  bronze  gnomon,  green  with  the 
beatings  of  the  weather,  the  figures  on  the  half-circle 
of  the  dial  worn  away,  illegible. 

But  on  the  other  side  of  the  fountain,  and  directly  op- 
posite the  door  of  the  Mission,  ranged  against  the  wall, 
were  nine  graves — three  with  headstones,  the  rest  with 
slabs.  Two  of  Sarria's  predecessors  were  buried  here ; 
three  of  the  graves  were  those  of  Mission  Indians.  One 
was  thought  to  contain  a  former  alcalde  of  Guadalajara ; 
two  more  held  the  bodies  of  De  La  Cuesta  and  his'young 
wife  (taking  with  her  to  the  grave  the  illusion  of  her 
husband's  love),  and  the  last  one,  the  ninth,  at  the  end  of 
the  line,  nearest  the  pear  trees,  was  marked  by  a  little 
headstone,  the  smallest  of  any,  on  which,  together  with 
the  proper  dates — only  sixteen  years  apart — was  cut  the 
name  "  Angele  Varian." 

But  the  quiet,  the  repose,  the  isolation  of  the  little 
cloister  garden  was  infinitely  delicious.  It  was  a  tiny 
corner  of  the  great  valley  that  stretched  in  all  directions 
around  it — shut  off,  discreet,  romantic,  a  garden  of 
dreams,  of  enchantments,  of  illusions.  Outside  there, 
far  off,  the  great  grim  world  went  clashing  through  its 
grooves,  but  in  here  never  an  echo  of  the  grinding  of  its 
wheels  entered  to  jar  upon  the  subdued  modulation  of 
the  fountain's  uninterrupted  murmur. 

Sarria  and  Vanamee  found  their  way  to  a  stone  bench 
against  the  side  wall  of  the  Mission,  near  the  door  from 


A  Story  of  California  141 

which  they  had  just  issued,  and  sat  down,  Sarria  light- 
ing a  cigar,  Vanamee  rolling  and  smoking  cigarettes  in 
Mexican  fashion. 

All  about  them  widened  the  vast  calm  night.  All  the 
stars  were  out.  The  moon  was  coming  up.  There  was 
no  wind,  no  sonnd.  The  insistent  flowing  of  the  fountain 
seemed  only  as  the  symbol  of  the  passing  of  time,  a 
thing  that  was  understood  rather  than  heard,  inevitable, 
prolonged.  At  long  intervals,  a  faint  breeze,  hardly 
more  than  a  breath,  found  its  way  into  the  garden  over 
the  enclosing  walls,  and  passed  overhead,  spreading 
everywhere  the  delicious,  mingled  perfume  of  magnolia 
blossoms,  of  mignonette,  of  moss,  of  grass,  and  all  the 
calm  green  life  silently  teeming  within  the  enclosure  of 
the  walls. 

From  where  he  sat,  Vanamee,  turning  his  head,  could 
look  out  underneath  the  pear  trees  to  the  north.  Close 
at  hand,  a  little  valley  lay  between  the  high  ground  on 
which  the  Mission  was  built,  and  the  line  of  low  hills  just 
beyond  Broderson  Creek  on  the  Quien  Sabe.  In  here 
was  the  Seed  ranch,  which  Angele's  people  had  culti- 
vated, a  unique  and  beautiful  stretch  of  five  hundred 
acres,  planted  thick  with  roses,  violets,  lilies,  tulips,  iris, 
carnations,  tube-roses,  poppies,  heliotrope — all  manner 
and  description  of  flowers,  five  hundred  acres  of  them, 
solid,  thick,  exuberant;  blooming  and  fading,  and  leav- 
ing their  seed  or  slips  to  be  marketed  broadcast  all  over 
the  United  States.  This  had  been  the  vocation  of 
Angele's  parents — raising  flowers  for  their  seeds.  All 
over  the  country  the  Seed  ranch  was  known.  Now  it 
was  arid,  almost  dry,  but  when  in  full  flower,  toward  the 
middle  of  summer,  the  sight  of  these  half-thousand  acres 
royal  with  colour — vermilion,  azure,  flaming  yellow — • 
was  a  marvel.  When  an  east  wind  blew,  men  on  the 
streets  of  Bonneville,  nearly  twelve  miles  away,  could 


142  The  Octopus 

catch  the  scent  of  this  valley  of  flowers,  this  chaos  of 
perfume. 

And  into  this  life  of  flowers,  this  world  of  colour,  this 
atmosphere  oppressive  and  clogged  and  cloyed  and  thick- 
ened with  sweet  odour,  Angele  had  been  born.  There 
she  had  lived  her  sixteen  years.  There  she  had  died.  It 
was  not  surprising  that  Vanamee,  with  his  intense,  deli- 
cate sensitiveness  to  beauty,  his  almost  abnormal  ca- 
pacity for  great  happiness,  had  been  drawn  to  her,  had 
loved  her  so  deeply. 

She  came  to  him  from  out  of  the  flowers,  the  smell  of 
the  roses  in  her  hair  of  gold,  that  hung  in  two  straight 
plaits  on  either  side  of  her  face;  the  reflection  of  the  vio- 
lets in  the  profound  dark  blue  of  her  eyes,  perplexing, 
heavy-lidded,  almond-shaped,  oriental;  the  aroma  and 
the  imperial  red  of  the  carnations  in  her  lips,  with  their 
almost  Egyptian  fulness;  the  whiteness  of  the  lilies,  the 
perfume  of  the  lilies,  and  the  lilies'  slender  balancing 
grace  in  her  neck.  Her  hands  disengaged  the  odour  of 
the  heliotropes.  The  folds  of  her  dress  gave  off  the 
enervating  scent  of  poppies.  Her  feet  were  redolent  of 
hyacinths. 

For  a  long  time  after  sitting  down  upon  the  bench, 
neither  the  priest  nor  Vanamee  spoke.  But  after  a 
while  Sarria  took  his  cigar  from  his  lips,  saying: 

"  How  still  it  is !  This  is  a  beautiful  old  garden,  peace- 
ful, very  quiet.  Some  day  I  shall  be  buried  here.  I  like 
to  remember  that;  and  you,  too,  Vanamee." 

"  Quien  sabef  " 

"Yes,  you,  too.  Where  else?  No,  it  is  better  here, 
yonder,  by  the  side  of  the  litle  girl." 

"  I  am  not  able  to  look  forward  yet,  sir.  The  things 
that  are  to  be  are  somehow  nothing  to  me  at  all.  For 
me  they  amount  to  nothing." 

"  They  amount  to  everything,  my  boy/' 


A  Story  of  California  143 

"  Yes,  to  one  part  of  me,  but  not  to  the  part  of  me  that 
belonged  to  Angele — the  best  part.  Oh,  you  don't 
know,"  he  exclaimed  with  a  sudden  movement,  "  no  one 
can  understand.  What  is  it  to  me  when  you  tell  me  that 
sometime  after  I  shall  die  too,  somewhere,  in  a  vague 
place  you  call  Heaven,  I  shall  see  her  again?  Do  you 
think  that  the  idea  of  that  ever  made  any  one's  sorrow 
easier  to  bear?  Ever  took  the  edge  from  any  one's 
grief?" 

"  But  you  believe  that " 

"  Oh,  believe,  believe  !  "  echoed  the  other.  "  What  do 
I  believe?  I  don't  know.  I  believe,  or  I  don't  believe. 
I  can  remember  what  she  was,  but  I  cannot  hope  what 
she  will  be.  Hope,  after  all,  is  only  memory  seen  re- 
versed. When  I  try  to  see  her  in  another  life — whatever 
you  call  it — in  Heaven — beyond  the  grave — this  vague 
place  of  yours ;  when  I  try  to  see  her  there,  she  comes 
to  my  imagination  only  as  what  she  was,  material, 
earthly,  as  I  loved  her.  Imperfect,  you  say ;  but  that  is 
as  I  saw  her,  and  as  I  saw  her,  I  loved  her ;  and  as  she 
was,  material,  earthly,  imperfect,  she  loved  me.  It's 
that,  that  I  want,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  don't  want  her 
changed.  I  don't  want  her  spiritualised,  exalted,  glori- 
fied, celestial.  I  want  her.  1  think  it  is  only  this  feeling 
that  has  kept  me  from  killing  myself.  I  would  rather  be 
unhappy  in  the  memory  of  what  she  actually  was,  than 
be  happy  in  the  realisation  of  her  transformed,  changed, 
made  celestial.  I  am  only  human.  Her  soul!  That  was 
beautiful,  no  doubt.  But,  again,  it  was  something  very 
vague,  intangible,  hardly  more  than  a  phrase.  But  the 
touch  of  her  hand  was  real,  the  sound  of  her  voice  was 
real,  the  clasp  of  her  arms  about  my  neck  was  real. 
Oh,"  he  cried,  shaken  with  a  sudden  wrench  of  passion, 
"  give  those  back  to  me.  Tell  your  God  to  give  those 
back  to  me — the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  touch  of  her 


144  The  Octopus 

hand,  the  clasp  of  her  dear  arms,  real,  real,  and  then  you 
may  talk  to  me  of  Heaven." 

Sarria  shook  his  head.  "  But  when  you  meet  her 
again,"  he  observed,  "  in  Heaven,  you,  too,  will  be 
changed.  You  will  see  her  spiritualised,  with  spiritual 
eyes.  As  she  is  now,  she  does  not  appeal  to  you.  I  un- 
derstand that.  It  is  because,  as  you  say,  you  are  only 
human,  while  she  is  divine.  But  when  you  come  to  be 
like  her,  as  she  is  now,  you  will  know  her  as  she  really 
is,  not  as  she  seemed  to  be,  because  her  voice  was  sweet, 
because  her  hair  was  pretty,  because  her  hand  was  warm 
in  yours.  Vanamee,  your  talk  is  that  of  a  foolish  child. 
You  are  like  one  of  the  Corinthians  to  whom  Paul  wrote. 
Do  you  remember  ?  Listen  now.  I  can  recall  the  words, 
and  such  words,  beautiful  and  terrible  at  the  same  time, 
such  a  majesty.  They  march  like  soldiers  with  trumpets. 
'  But  some  man  will  say ' — as  you  have  said  just  now — • 
1  How  are  the  dead  raised  up  ?  And  with  what  body  do 
they  come  ?  Thou  fool !  That  which  thou  sowest  is  not 
quickened  except  it  die,  and  that  which  thou  sowest, 
thou  sowest  not  that  body  that  shall  be,  but  bare  grain. 
It  may  chance  of  wheat,  or  of  some  other  grain.  But 
God  giveth  it  a  body  as  it  hath  pleased  him,  and  to  every 
seed  his  own  body.  .  .  .  It  is  sown  a  natural  body ; 
it  is  raised  a  spiritual  body/  It  is  because  you  are  a 
natural  body  that  you  cannot  understand  her,  nor  wish 
for  her  as  a  spiritual  body,  but  when  you  are  both  spir- 
itual, then  you  shall  know  each  other  as  you  are — know 
as  you  never  knew  before.  Your  grain  of  wheat  is  your 
symbol  of  immortality.  You  bury  it  in  the  earth.  It 
dies,  and  rises  again  a  thousand  times  more  beautiful. 
Vanamee,  your  dear  girl  was  only  a  grain  of  humanity 
that  we  have  buried  here,  and  the  end  is  not  yet.  But 
all  this  is  so  old,  so  old.  The  world  learned  it  a  thousand 
years  ago,  and  yet  each  man  that  has  ever  stood  by  the 


A  Story  of  California  145 

open  grave  of  any  one  he  loved  must  learn  it  all  over 
again  from  the  beginning." 

Vanamee  was  silent  for  a  moment,  looking  off  with 
unseeing  eyes  between  the  trunks  of  the  pear  trees,  over 
the  little  valley. 

"  That  may  all  be  as  you  say,"  he  answered  after  a 
while.  "  I  have  not  learned  it  yet,  in  any  case.  Now,  I 
only  know  that  I  love  her — oh,  as  if  it  all  were  yester- 
day— and  that  I  am  suffering,  suffering,  always." 

He  leaned  forward,  his  head  supported  on  his 
clenched  fists,  the  infinite  sadness  of  his  face  deepening 
like  a  shadow,  the  tears  brimming  in  his  deep-set  eyes. 
A  question  that  he  must  ask,  which  involved  the  thing 
that  was  scarcely  to  be  thought  of,  occurred  to  him  at 
this  moment.  After  hesitating  for  a  long  moment,  he 
said: 

"  I  have  been  away  a  long  time,  and  I  have  had  no 
news  of  this  place  since  I  left.  Is  there  anything  to  tell, 
Father?  Has  any  discovery  been  made,  any  suspicion 
developed,  as  to — the  Other  ?  " 

The  priest  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  a  word,  not  a  whisper.  It  is  a  mystery.  It 
always  will  be." 

Vanamee  clasped  his  head  between  his  clenched  fists, 
rocking  himself  to  and  fro. 

"  Oh,  the  terror  of  it,"  he  murmured.  "  The  horror 
of  it.  And  she — think  of  it,  Sarria,  only  sixteen,  a  little 
girl ;  so  innocent,  that  she  never  knew  what  wrong 
meant,  pure  as  a  little  child  is  pure,  who  believed  that  all 
things  were  good ;  mature  only  in  her  love.  And  to  be 
struck  down  like  that,  while  your  God  looked  down  from 
Heaven  and  would  not  take  her  part."  All  at  once  he 
seemed  to  lose  control  of  himself.  One  of  those  furies 
of  impotent  grief  and  wrath  that  assailed  him  from  time 
to  time,  blind,  insensate,  incoherent,  suddenly  took  pos- 


146  The  Octopus 

session  of  him.  A  torrent  of  words  issued  from  his 
lips,  and  he  flung  out  an  arm,  the  fist  clenched,  in  a  fierce, 
quick  gesture,  partly  of  despair,  partly  of  defiance,  partly 
of  supplication. 

"  No,  your  God  would  not  take  her  part.  Where  was 
God's  mercy  in  that?  Where  was  Heaven's  protection 
in  that?  Where  was  the  loving  kindness  you  preach 
about?  Why  did  God  give  her  life  if  it  was  to  be 
stamped  out  ?  Why  did  God  give  her  the  power  of  love 
if  it  was  to  come  to  nothing  ?  Sarria,  listen  to  me.  Why 
did  God  make  her  so  divinely  pure  if  He  permitted  that 
abomination  ?  Ha  !  "  he  exclaimed  bitterly,  "  your  God ! 
Why,  an  Apache  buck  would  have  been  more  merciful. 
Your  God !  There  is  no  God.  There  is  only  the  Devil. 
The  Heaven  you  pray  to  is  only  a  joke,  a  wretched  trick, 
a  delusion.  It  is  only  Hell  that  is  real." 

Sarria  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"  You  are  a  fool  and  a  child,"  he  exclaimed,  "  and  it  is 
blasphemy  that  you  are  saying.  I  forbid  it.  You  under- 
stand? I  forbid  it." 

Vanamee  turned  on  him  with  a  sudden  cry. 

"  Then,  tell  your  God  to  give  her  back  to  me !  " 

Sarria  started  away  from  him,  his  eyes  widening  in 
astonishment,  surprised  out  of  all  composure  by  the 
other's  outburst.  Vanamee's  swarthy  face  was  pale, 
the  sunken  cheeks  and  deep-set  eyes  were  marked  with 
great  black  shadows.  The  priest  no  longer  recognised 
him.  The  face,  that  face  of  the  ascetic,  lean,  framed  in 
its  long  black  hair  and  pointed  beard,  was  quivering  with 
the  excitement  of  hallucination.  It  was  the  face  of  the 
inspired  shepherds  of  the  Hebraic  legends,  living  close 
to  nature,  the  younger  prophets  of  Israel,  dwellers  in  the 
wilderness,  solitary,  imaginative,  believing  in  the 
Vision,  having  strange  delusions,  gifted  wth  strange 
powers.  In  a  brief  second  of  thought,  Sarria  under- 


A  Story  of  California  147 

stood.  Out  into  the  wilderness,  the  vast  arid  desert 
of  the  Southwest,  Vanamee  had  carried  his  grief.  For 
days,  for  weeks,  months  even,  he  had  been  alone,  a  soli- 
tary speck  lost  in  the  immensity  of  the  horizons ;  con- 
tinually he  was  brooding,  haunted  with  his  sorrow, 
thinking,  thinking,  often  hard  put  to  it  for  food.  The 
body  was  ill-nourished,  and  the  mind,  concentrated  for- 
ever upon  one  subject,  had  recoiled  upon  itself,  had 
preyed  upon  the  naturally  nervous  temperament,  till  the 
imagination  had  become  exalted,  morbidly  active,  dis- 
eased, beset  with  hallucinations,  forever  in  search  of  the 
manifestation,  of  the  miracle.  It  was  small  wonder  that, 
bringing  a  fancy  so  distorted  back  to  the  scene  of  a  van- 
ished happiness,  Vanamee  should  be  racked  with  the 
.nost  violent  illusions,  beset  in  the  throes  of  a  veritable 
hysteria. 

"  Tell  your  God  to  give  her  back  to  me,"  he  repeated 
with  fierce  insistence. 

It  was  the  pitch  of  mysticism,  the  imagination  har- 
assed and  goaded  beyond  the  normal  round,  suddenly 
flipping  from  the  circumference,  spinning  off  at  a  tan- 
gent, out  into  the  void,  where  all  things  seemed  possible, 
hurtling  through  the  dark  there,  groping  for  the  super- 
natural, clamouring  for  the  miracle.  And  it  was  also  the 
human,  natural  protest  against  the  inevitable,  the  irre- 
vocable ;  the  spasm  of  revolt  under  the  sting  of  death, 
the  rebellion  of  the  soul  at  the  victory  of  the  grave. 

"  He  can  give  her  back  to  me  if  He  only  will,"  Van- 
amee cried.  "  Sarria,  you  must  help  me.  I  tell  you — I 
warn  you,  sir,  I  can't  last  much  longer  under  it.  My 
head  is  all  wrong  with  it — I've  no  more  hold  on  my 
mind.  Something  must  happen  or  I  shall  lose  my  senses. 
I  am  breaking  down  under  it  all,  my  body  and  my  mind 
alike.  Bring  her  to  me ;  make  God  show  her  to  me.  If 
all  tales  are  true,  it  would  not  be  the  first  time.  If  I 


148  The  Octopus 

cannot  have  her,  at  least  let  me  see  her  as  she  was,  real, 
earthly,  not  her  spirit,  her  ghost.  I  want  her  real  selft 
undefined  again.  If  this  is  dementia,  then  let  me  be  de- 
mented. But  help  me,  you  and  your  God ;  create  the  de- 
lusion, do  the  miracle." 

"  Stop !  "  cried  the  priest  again,  shaking  him  roughly 
by  the  shoulder.  "  Stop.  Be  yourself.  This  is  de- 
mentia; but  I  shall  not  let  you  be  demented.  Think  of 
what  you  are  saying.  Bring  her  back  to  you !  Is  that 
the  way  of  God?  I  thought  you  were  a  man;  this  is  the 
talk  of  a  weak-minded  girl." 

Vanamee  stirred  abruptly  in  his  place,  drawing  a  long 
breath  and  looking  about  him  vaguely,  as  if  he  came  to 
himself. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  muttered.  "  I  hardly  know  what 
I  am  saying  at  times.  But  there  are  moments  when  my 
whole  mind  and  soul  seem  to  rise  up  in  rebellion  against 
what  has  happened;  when  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am 
stronger  than  death,  and  that  if  I  only  knew  how  to  use 
the  strength  of  my  will,  concentrate  my  power  of 
thought — volition — that  I  could — I  don't  know — not  call 
her  back — but — something " 

"  A  diseased  and  distorted  mind  is  capable  of  hal- 
lucinations, if  that  is  what  you  mean,"  observed  Sarria. 

"  Perhaps  that  is  what  I  mean.  Perhaps  I  want  only 
the  delusion,  after  all." 

Sarria  did  not  reply,  and  there  was  a  long  silence.  In 
the  damp  south  corners  of  the  walls  a  frog  began  to 
croak  at  exact  intervals.  The  little  fountain  rippled 
monotonously,  and  a  magnolia  flower  dropped  from  one 
of  the  trees,  falling  straight  as  a  plummet  through  the 
motionless  air,  and  settling  upon  the  gravelled  walk 
with  a  faint  rustling  sound.  Otherwise  the  stillness  was 
profound. 

A  little  later,  the  priest's  cigar,  long  since  out,  slipped 


A  Story  of  California  149 

from  his  fingers  to  the  ground.  He  began  to  nod  gently. 
Vanamee  touched  his  arm. 

"Asleep,  sir?" 

The  other  started,  rubbing  his  eyes. 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  believe  I  was." 

"  Better  go  to  bed,  sir.  I  am  not  tired.  I  think  I  shall 
sit  out  here  a  little  longer." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  would  be  better  off  in  bed.  Your 
bed  is  always  readj  for  you  here  whenever  you  want  to 
use  it." 

"  No — I  shall  go  back  to  Quien  Sabe — later.  Good- 
night, sir." 

"  Good-night,  my  boy." 

Vanamee  was  left  alone.  For  a  long  time  he  sat 
motionless  in  his  place,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  chin 
propped  in  his  hands.  The  minutes  passed — then  the 
hours.  The  moon  climbed  steadily  higher  among  the 
stars.  Vanamee  rolled  and  smoked  cigarette  after  cigar- 
ette, the  blue  haze  of  smoke  hanging  motionless  above 
his  head,  or  drifting  in  slowly  weaving  filaments  across 
the  open  spaces  of  the  garden. 

But  the  influence  of  the  old  enclosure,  this  corner  of 
romance  and  mystery,  this  isolated  garden  of  dreams, 
savouring  of  the  past,  with  its  legends,  its  graves,  its 
crumbling  sun  dial,  its  fountain  with  its  rime  of  moss, 
was  not  to  be  resisted.  Now  that  the  priest  had  left  him, 
the  same  exaltation  of  spirit  that  had  seized  upon  Van- 
amee earlier  in  the  evening,  by  degrees  grew  big  again 
in  his  mind  and  imagination.  His  sorrow  assaulted  him 
like  the  flagellations  of  a  fine  whiplash,  and  his  love  for 
Angele  rose  again  in  his  heart,  it  seemed  to  him  never 
so  deep,  so  tender,  so  infinitely  strong.  No  doubt,  it 
was  his  familiarity  with  the  Mission  garden,  his  clear-cut 
remembrance  of  it,  as  it  was  in  the  days  when  he  had  met 
Angele  there,  tallying  now  so  exactly  with  the  reality 


150  The  Octopus 

there  under  his  eyes,  that  brought  her  to  his  imagination 
so  vividly.  As  yet  he  dared  not  trust  himself  near  her 
grave,  but,  for  the  moment,  he  rose  and,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him,  walked  slowly  from  point  to  point 
amid  the  tiny  gravelled  walks,  recalling  the  incidents  of 
eighteen  years  ago.  On  the  bench  he  had  quitted  he  and 
Angele  had  often  sat.  Here  by  the  crumbling  sun  dial, 
he  recalled  the  night  when  he  had  kissed  her  for  the  first 
time.  Here,  again,  by  the  rim  of  the  fountain,  with  its 
fringe  of  green,  she  once  had  paused,  and,  baring  her 
arm  to  the  shoulder,  had  thrust  it  deep  into  the  water, 
and  then  withdrawing  it,  had  given  it  to  him  to  kiss, 
all  wet  and  cool;  and  here,  at  last,  under  the  shadow 
of  the  pear  trees  they  had  sat,  evening  after  evening, 
looking  off  over  the  little  valley  below  them,  watch- 
ing the  night  build  itself,  dome-like,  from  horizon  to 
zenith. 

Brusquely  Vanamee  turned  away  from  the  prospect. 
The  Seed  ranch  was  dark  at  this  time  of  the  year,  and 
flowerless.  Far  off  toward  its  centre,  he  had  caught  a 
brief  glimpse  of  the  house  where  Angele  had  lived,  and  a 
faint  light  burning  in  its  window.  But  he  turned  from  it 
sharply.  The  deep-seated  travail  of  his  grief  abruptly 
reached  the  paroxysm.  With  long  strides  he  crossed  the 
garden  and  reentered  the  Mission  church  itself,  plung- 
ing into  the  coolness  of  its  atmosphere  as  into  a  bath. 
What  he  searched  for  he  did  not  know,  or,  rather,  did 
not  define.  He  knew  only  that  he  was  suffering,  that  a 
longing  for  Angele,  for  some  object  around  which  his 
great  love  could  enfold  itself,  was  tearing  at  his  heart 
with  iron  teeth.  He  was  ready  to  be  deluded;  craved  the 
hallucination ;  begged  pitifully  for  the  illusion ;  anything 
rather  than  the  empty,  tenantless  night,  the  voiceless 
silence,  the  vast  loneliness  of  the  overspanning  arc  of  the 
heavens. 


A  Story  of  California  151 

Before  the  chancel  rail  of  the  altar,  under  the  sanc- 
tuary lamp,  Vanamee  sank  upon  his  knees,  his  arms 
folded  upon  the  rail,  his  head  bowed  down  upon  them. 
He  prayed,  with  what  words  he  could  not  say,  for  what 
he  did  not  understand — for  help,  merely,  for  relief,  for  an 
Answer  to  his  cry. 

It  was  upon  that,  at  length,  that  his  disordered  mind 
concentrated  itself,  an  Answer — he  demanded,  he  im- 
plored an  Answer.  Not  a  vague  visitation  of  Grace,  not 
a  formless  sense  of  Peace ;  but  an  Answer,  something 
real,  even  if  the  reality  were  fancied,  a  voice  out  of  the 
night,  responding  to  his,  a  hand  in  the  dark  clasping 
his  groping  fingers,  a  breath,  human,  warm,  fragrant, 
familiar,  like  a  soft,  sweet  caress  on  his  shrunken 
cheeks.  Alone  there  in  the  dim  half-light  of  the  de- 
caying Mission,  with  its  crumbling  plaster,  its  naive 
crudity  of  ornament  and  picture,  he  wrestled  fiercely 
with  his  desires — words,  fragments  of  sentences, 
inarticulate,  incoherent,  wrenched  from  his  tight-shut 
teeth. 

But  the  Answer  was  not  in  the  church.  Above  him, 
over  the  high  altar,  the  Virgin  in  a  glory,  with  downcast 
eyes  and  folded  hands,  grew  vague  and  indistinct  in  the 
shadow,  the  colours  fading,  tarnished  by  centuries  of 
incense  smoke.  The  Christ  in  agony  on  the  Cross  was 
but  a  lamentable  vision  of  tormented  anatomy,  grey 
flesh,  spotted  with  crimson.  The  St.  John,  the  San  Juan 
Bautista,  patron  saint  of  the  Mission,  the  gaunt  figure 
in  skins,  two  fingers  upraised  in  the  gesture  of  bene- 
diction, gazed  stolidly  out  into  the  half-gloom  under 
the  ceiling,  ignoring  the  human  distress  that  beat  it- 
self in  vain  against  the  altar  rail  below,  and  Angele  re- 
mained as  before — only  a  memory,  far  distant,  in- 
tangible, lost. 
Vanamee  rose,  turning  his  back  upon  the  altar  with  a 


152  The  Octopus 

vague  gesture  of  despair.  He  crossed  the  church,  and 
issuing  from  the  low-arched  door  opposite  the  pulpit, 
once  more  stepped  out  into  the  garden.  Here,  at  least, 
was  reality.  The  warm,  still  air  descended  upon  him  like 
a  cloak,  grateful,  comforting,  dispelling  the  chill  that 
lurked  in  the  damp  mould  of  plaster  and  crumbling 
adobe. 

But  now  he  found  his  way  across  the  garden  on  the 
other  side  of  the  fountain,  where,  ranged  against  the 
eastern  wall,  were  nine  graves.  Here  Angele  was 
buried,  in  the  smallest  grave  of  them  all,  marked  by  the 
little  headstone,  with  its  two  dates,  only  sixteen  years 
apart.  To  this  spot,  at  last,  he  had  returned,  after  the 
years  spent  in  the  desert,  the  wilderness — after  all  the 
wanderings  of  the  Long  Trail.  Here,  if  ever,  he  must 
have  a  sense  of  her  nearness.  Close  at  hand,  a  short 
four  feet  under  that  mound  of  grass,  was  the  form  he 
had  so  often  held  in  the  embrace  of  his  arms ;  the  face, 
the  very  face  he  had  kissed,  that  face  with  the  hair  of 
gold  making  three-cornered  the  round  white  forehead, 
the  violet-blue  eyes,  heavy-lidded,  with  their  strange 
oriental  slant  upward  toward  the  temples ;  the  sweet 
full  lips,  almost  Egyptian  in  their  fulness — all  that 
strange,  perplexing,  wonderful  beauty,  so  troublous,  so 
enchanting,  so  out  of  all  accepted  standards. 

He  bent  down,  dropping  upon  one  knee,  a  hand  upon 
the  headstone,  and  read  again  the  inscription.  Then  in- 
stinctively his  hand  left  the  stone  and  rested  upon  the 
low  mound  of  turf,  touching  it  with  the  softness  of  a 
caress;  and  then,  before  he  was  aware  of  it,  he  was 
stretched  at  full  length  upon  the  earth,  beside  the  grave, 
his  arms  about  the  low  mound,  his  lips  pressed  against 
the  grass  with  which  it  was  covered.  The  pent-up  grief 
of  nearly  twenty  years  rose  again  within  his  heart,  and 
overflowed,  irresistible,  violent,  passionate.  There  was 


A  Story  of  California  153 

no  one  to  see,  no  one  to  hear.  Vanamee  had  no  thought 
of  restraint.  He  no  longer  wrestled  with  his  pain — • 
strove  against  it.  There  was  even  a  sense  of  relief  in 
permitting  himself  to  be  overcome.  But  the  reaction 
from  this  outburst  was  equally  violent.  His  revolt 
against  the  inevitable,  his  protest  against  the  grave, 
shook  him  from  head  to  foot,  goaded  him  beyond  all 
bounds  of  reason,  hounded  him  on  and  into  the  do- 
main of  hysteria,  dementia.  Vanamee  was  no  longer 
master  of  himself — no  longer  knew  what  he  was  doing. 

At  first,  he  had  been  content  with  merely  a  wild,  un- 
reasoned cry  to  Heaven  that  Angele  should  be  restored 
to  him,  but  the  vast  egotism  that  seems  to  run  through 
all  forms  of  disordered  intelligence  gave  his  fancy 
another  turn.  He  forgot  God.  He  no  longer  reckoned 
with  Heaven.  He  arrogated  their  powers  to  himself — • 
struggled  to  be,  of  his  own  unaided  might,  stronger  than 
death,  more  powerful  than  the  grave.  He  had  demanded 
of  Sarria  that  God  should  restore  Angele  to  him,  but 
now  he  appealed  directly  to  Angele  herself.  As  he  lay 
there,  his  arms  clasped  about  her  grave,  she  seemed  so 
near  to  him  that  he  fancied  she  must  hear.  And  sud- 
denly, at  this  moment,  his  recollection  of  his  strange 
compelling  power — the  same  power  by  which  he  had 
called  Presley  to  him  half-way  across  the  Quien  Sabe 
ranch,  the  same  power  which  had  brought  Sarria  to  his 
side  that  very  evening — recurred  to  him.  Concentrat- 
ing his  mind  upon  the  one  object  with  which  it  had  so 
long  been  filled,  Vanamee,  his  eyes  closed,  his  face  buried 
in  his  arms,  exclaimed : 

"  Come  to  me — Angele — don't  you  hear  ?  Come  to 
me/' 

But  the  Answer  was  not  in  the  Grave.  Below  him  the 
voiceless  Earth  lay  silent,  moveless,  withholding  the 
secret,  jealous  of  that  which  it  held  so  close  in  its  grip, 


154  rFhe  Octopus 

refusing  to  give  up  that  which  had  been  confided  to  its 
keeping,  untouched  by  the  human  anguish  that  above 
there,  on  its  surface,  clutched  with  despairing  hands  at  a 
grave  long  made.  The  Earth  that  only  that  morning 
had  been  so  eager,  so  responsive  to  the  lightest  sum- 
mons, so  vibrant  with  Life,  now  at  night,  holding  death 
within  its  embrace,  guarding  inviolate  the  secret  of  the 
Grave,  was  deaf  to  all  entreaty,  refused  the  Answer,  and 
Angele  remained  as  before,  only  a  memory,  far  distant, 
intangible,  lost. 

Vanamee  lifted  his  head,  looking  about  him  with  un- 
seeing eyes,  trembling  with  the  exertion  of  his  vain  ef- 
fort. But  he  could  not  as  yet  allow  himself  to  despair. 
Never  before  had  that  curious  power  of  attraction  failed 
him.  He  felt  himself  to  be  so  strong  in  this  respect  that 
he  was  persuaded  if  he  exerted  himself  to  the  limit  of  his 
capacity,  something — he  could  not  say  what — must 
come  of  it.  If  it  was  only  a  self-delusion,  an  hallucina- 
tion, he  told  himself  that  he  would  be  content. 

Almost  of  its  own  accord,  his  distorted  mind  concen- 
trated itself  again,  every  thought,  all  the  power  of  his 
will  riveting  themselves  upon  Angele.  As  if  she  were 
alive,  he  summoned  her  to  him.  His  eyes,  fixed  upon 
the  name  cut  into  the  headstone,  contracted,  the  pupils 
growing  small,  his  fists  shut  tight,  his  nerves  braced 
rigid. 

For  a  few  seconds  he  stood  thus,  breathless,  expectant, 
awaiting  the  manifestation,  the  Miracle.  Then,  without 
knowing  why,  hardly  conscious  of  what  was  transpiring, 
he  found  that  his  glance  was  leaving  the  headstone,  was 
turning  from  the  grave.  Not  only  this,  but  his  whole 
body  was  following  the  direction  of  his  eyes.  Before 
he  knew  it,  he  was  standing  with  his  back  to  Angele's 
grave,  was  facing  the  north,  facing  the  line  of  pear  trees 
and  the  little  valley  where  the  Seed  ranch  lay.  At  first, 


A  Story  of  California  155 

he  thought  this  was  because  he  had  allowed  his  will  to 
weaken,  the  concentrated  power  of  his  mind  to  grow 
slack.  And  once  more  turning  toward  the  grave,  he 
banded  all  his  thoughts  together  in  a  consummate  effort, 
his  teeth  grinding  together,  his  hands  pressed  to  his  fore- 
head. He  forced  himself  to  the  notion  that  Angele  was 
alive,  and  to  this  creature  of  his  imagination  he  addressed 
himself: 

"Angele!"  he  cried  in  a  low  voice;  "Angele,  I  am 
calling  you — do  you  hear?  Come  to  me — come  to  me 
now,  now." 

Instead  of  the  Answer  he  demanded,  that  inexplicable 
counter-influence  cut  across  the  current  of  his  thought. 
Strive  as  he  would  against  it,  he  must  veer  to  the  north, 
toward  the  pear  trees.  Obeying  it,  he  turned,  and,  still 
wondering,  took  a  step  in  that  direction,  then  another 
and  another.  The  next  moment  he  came  abruptly  to 
himself,  in  the  black  shadow  of  the  pear  trees  them- 
selves, and,  opening  his  eyes,  found  himself  looking  off 
over  the  Seed  ranch,  toward  the  little  house  in  the 
centre  where  Angele  had  once  lived. 

Perplexed,  he  returned  to  the  grave,  once  more  calling 
upon  the  resources  of  his  will,  and  abruptly,  so  soon  as 
these  reached  a  certain  point,  the  same  cross-current 
set  in.  He  could  no  longer  keep  his  eyes  upon  the 
headstone,  could  no  longer  think  of  the  grave  and  what 
it  held.  He  must  face  the  north;  he  must  be  drawn  to- 
ward the  pear  trees,  and  there  left  standing  in  their 
shadow,  looking  out  aimlessly  over  the  Seed  ranch, 
wondering,  bewildered.  Farther  than  this  the  influence 
never  drew  him,  but  up  to  this  point — the  line  of  pear 
trees — it  was  not  to  be  resisted. 

For  a  time  the  peculiarity  of  the  affair  was  of  more 
interest  to  Vanamee  than  even  his  own  distress  of  spirit, 
and  once  or  twice  he  repeated  the  attempt,  almost  experi- 


156  The  Octopus 

mentally,  and  invariably  with  the  same  result :  so  soon 
as  he  seemed  to  hold  Angele  in  the  grip  of  his  mind,  he 
was  moved  to  turn  about  toward  the  north,  and  hurry 
toward  the  pear  trees  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  that  over- 
looked the  little  valley. 

But  Vanamee's  unhappiness  was  too  keen  this  night 
for  him  to  dwell  long  upon  the  vagaries  of  his  mind. 
Submitting  at  length,  and  abandoning  the  grave,  he  flung 
himself  down  in  the  black  shade  of  the  pear  trees,  his  chin 
in  his  hands,  and  resigned  himself  finally  and  definitely 
to  the  inrush  of  recollection  and  the  exquisite  grief  of  an 
infinite  regret. 

To  his  fancy,  she  came  to  him  again.  He  put  himself 
back  many  years.  He  remembered  the  warm  nights 
of  July  and  August,  profoundly  still,  the  sky  encrusted 
with  stars,  the  little  Mission  garden  exhaling  the  mingled 
perfumes  that  all  through  the  scorching  day  had  been 
distilled  under  the  steady  blaze  of  a  summer's  sun.  He 
saw  himself  as  another  person,  arriving  at  this,  their 
rendezvous.  All  day  long  she  had  been  in  his  mind.  All 
day  long  he  had  looked  forward  to  this  quiet  hour  that 
belonged  to  her.  It  was  dark.  He  could  see  nothing, 
but,  by  and  by,  he  heard  a  step,  a  gentle  rustle  of  the 
grass  on  the  slope  of  the  hill  pressed  under  an  advancing 
foot.  Then  he  saw  the  faint  gleam  of  pallid  gold  of  her 
hair,  a  barely  visible  glow  in  the  starlight,  and  heard  the 
murmur  of  her  breath  in  the  lapse  of  the  over-passing 
breeze.  And  then,  in  the  midst  of  the  gentle  perfumes 
of  the  garden,  the  perfumes  of  the  magnolia  flowers,  of 
the  mignonette  borders,  of  the  crumbling  walls,  there 
expanded  a  new  odour,  or  the  faint  mingling  of  many 
odours,  the  smell  of  the  roses  that  lingered  in  her  hair,  of 
the  lilies  that  exhaled  from  her  neck,  of  the  heliotrope 
that  disengaged  itself  from  her  hands  and  arms,  and  of 
the  hyacinths  with  which  her  little  feet  were  redolent 


A  Story  of  California  157 

And  then,  suddenly,  it  was  herself — her  eyes,  heavy- 
lidded,  violet  blue,  full  of  the  love  of  him;  her  sweet 
full  lips  speaking  his  name;  her  hands  clasping  his  hands, 
his  shoulders,  his  neck — her  whole  dear  body  giving  it- 
self into  his  embrace;  her  lips  against  his;  her  hands 
holding  his  head,  drawing  his  face  down  to  hers. 

Vanamee,  as  he  remembered  all  this,  flung  out  an  arm 
with  a  cry  of  pain,  his  eyes  searching  the  gloom,  all  his 
mind  in  strenuous  mutiny  against  the  triumph  of  Death. 
His  glance  shot  swiftly  out  across  the  night,  uncon- 
sciously following  the  direction  from  which  Angele  used 
to  come  to  him. 

"  Come  to  me  now,"  he  exclaimed  under  his  breath, 
tense  and  rigid  with  the  vast  futile  effort  of  his  will. 
"  Come  to  me  now,  now.  Don't  you  hear  me,  Angele  ? 
You  must,  you  must  come." 

Suddenly  Vanamee  returned  to  himself  with  the 
abruptness  of  a  blow.  His  eyes  opened.  He  half  raised 
himself  from  the  ground.  Swiftly  his  scattered  wits  re- 
adjusted themselves.  Never  more  sane,  never  more 
himself,  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  looking  off  into 
the  night  across  the  Seed  ranch. 

"What  was  it?"  he  murmured,  bewildered. 

He  looked  around  him  from  side  to  side,  as  if  to  get 
in  touch  with  reality  once  more.  He  looked  at  his  hands, 
at  the  rough  bark  of  the  pear  tree  next  which  he  stood, 
at  the  streaked  and  rain-eroded  walls  of  the  Mission  and 
garden.  The  exaltation  of  his  mind  calmed  itself;  the 
unnatural  strain  under  which  he  laboured  slackened. 
He  became  thoroughly  master  of  himself  again,  matter- 
of-fact,  practical,  keen. 

But  just  so  sure  as  his  hands  were  his  own,  just  so  sure 
as  the  bark  of  the  pear  tree  was  rough,  the  mouldering 
adobe  of  the  Mission  walls  damp — just  so  sure  had  Some- 
thing occurred.  It  was  vague,  intangible,  appealing  only 


158  The  Octopus 

to  some  strange,  nameless  sixth  sense,  but  none  the  less 
perceptible.  His  mind,  his  imagination,  sent  out  from 
him  across  the  night,  across  the  little  valley  below  him, 
speeding  hither  and  thither  through  the  dark,  lost,  con- 
fused, had  suddenly  paused,  hovering,  had  found  Some- 
thing. It  had  not  returned  to  him  empty-handed.  It 
had  come  back,  but  now  there  was  a  change — myste- 
rious, illusive.  There  were  no  words  for  this  that  had 
transpired.  But  for  the  moment,  one  thing  only  was 
certain.  The  night  was  no  longer  voiceless,  the  dark  was 
no  longer  empty.  Far  off  there,  beyond  the  reach  of 
vision,  unlocalised,  strange,  a  ripple  had  formed  on  the 
still  black  pool  of  the  night,  had  formed,  flashed  one  in- 
stant to  the  stars,  then  swiftly  faded  again.  The  night 
shut  down  once  more.  There  was  no  sound — nothing 
stirred. 

For  the  moment,  Vanamee  stood  transfixed,  struck 
rigid  in  his  place,  stupefied,  his  eyes  staring,  breathless 
with  utter  amazement.  Then,  step  by  step,  he  shrank 
back  into  the  deeper  shadow,  treading  with  the  infinite 
precaution  of  a  prowling  leopard.  A  qualm  of  something 
very  much  like  fear  seized  upon  him.  But  immediately 
on  the  heels  of  this  first  impression  came  the  doubt  of 
his  own  senses.  Whatever  had  happened  had  been  so 
ephemeral,  so  faint,  so  intangible,  that  now  he  wondered 
if  he  had  not  deceived  himself,  after  all.  But  the  reac- 
tion followed.  Surely,  there  had  been  Something.  And 
from  that  moment  began  for  him  the  most  poignant  un- 
certainty of  mind.  Gradually  he  drew  back  into  the 
garden,  holding  his  breath,  listening  to  every  faintest 
sound,  walking  upon  tiptoe.  He  reached  the  fountain, 
and  wetting  his  hands,  passed  them  across  his  forehead 
and  eyes.  Once  more  he  stood  listening.  The  silence 
was  profound. 

Troubled,  disturbed,  Vanamee  went  away,  passing  out 


A  Story  of  California  159 

of  the  garden,  descending  the  hill.  He  forded  Broder- 
son  Creek  where  it  intersected  the  road  to  Guadalajara, 
and  went  on  across  Quien  Sabe,  walking  slowly,  his  head 
bent  down,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  thoughtful, 
perplexed. 


At  seven  o'clock,  in  the  bedroom  of  his  ranch  house, 
in  the  white-painted  iron  bedstead  with  its  blue-grey 
army  blankets  and  red  counterpane,  Annixter  was  still 
asleep,  his  face  red,  his  mouth  open,  his  stiff  yellow  hair 
in  wild  disorder.  On  the  wooden  chair  at  the  bed-head, 
stood  the  kerosene  lamp,  by  the  light  of  which  he  had 
been  reading  the  previous  evening.  Beside  it  was  a 
paper  bag  of  dried  prunes,  and  the  limp  volume  of  "  Cop- 
perfield,"  the  place  marked  by  a  slip  of  paper  torn  from 
the  edge  of  the  bag. 

Annixter  slept  soundly,  making  great  work  of  the  busi- 
ness, unable  to  take  even  his  rest  gracefully.  His  eyes 
were  shut  so  tight  that  the  skin  at  their  angles  was 
drawn  into  puckers.  Under  his  pillow,  his  two  hands 
were  doubled  up  into  fists.  At  intervals,  he  gritted  his 
teeth  ferociously,  while,  from  time  to  time,  the  abrupt 
sound  of  his  snoring  dominated  the  brisk  ticking  of  the 
alarm  clock  that  hung  from  the  brass  knob  of  the  bed- 
post, within  six  inches  of  his  ear. 

But  immediately  after  seven,  this  clock  sprung  its 
alarm  with  the  abruptness  of  an  explosion,  and  within 
the  second,  Annixter  had  hurled  the  bed-clothes  from 
him  and  flung  himself  up  to  a  sitting  posture  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed,  panting  and  gasping,  blinking  at  the  light, 
rubbing  his  head,  dazed  and  bewildered,  stupefied  at  the 
hideous  suddenness  with  which  he  had  been  wrenched 
from  his  sleep. 


A  Story  of  California  161 

His  first  act  was  to  take  down  the  alarm  clock  and 
stifle  its  prolonged  whirring  under  the  pillows  and 
blankets.  But  when  this  had  been  done,  he  continued  to 
sit  stupidly  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  curling  his  toes  away 
from  the  cold  of  the  floor ;  his  half-shut  eyes,  heavy  with 
sleep,  fixed  and  vacant,  closing  and  opening  by  turns. 
For  upwards  of  three  minutes  he  alternately  dozed  and 
woke,  his  head  and  the  whole  upper  half  of  his  body  sag- 
ging abruptly  sideways  from  moment  to  moment.  But 
at  length,  coming  more  to  himself,  he  straightened  up, 
ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  and  with  a  prodigious 
yawn,  murmured  vaguely: 

"Oh,  Lord!     Oh-h,  Lord!" 

He  stretched  three  or  four  times,  twisting  about  in  his 
place,  curling  and  uncurling  his  toes,  muttering  from 
time  to  time  between  two  yawns: 

"Oh,  Lord!    Oh,  Lord!" 

He  stared  about  the  room,  collecting  his  thoughts,  re- 
adjusting himself  for  the  day's  work. 

The  room  was  barren,  the  walls  of  tongue-and-groove 
sheathing — alternate  brown  and  yellow  boards — like  the 
walls  of  a  stable,  were  adorned  with  two  or  three  un- 
framed  lithographs,  the  Christmas  "  souvenirs "  of 
weekly  periodicals,  fastened  with  great  wire  nails;  a 
bunch  of  herbs  or  flowers,  lamentably  withered  and  grey 
with  dust,  was  affixed  to  the  mirror  over  the  black  walnut 
washstand  by  the  window,  and  a  yellowed  photograph  of 
Annixter's  combined  harvester — himself  and  his  men  in 
a  group  before  it — hung  close  at  hand.  On  the  floor,  at 
the  bedside  and  before  the  bureau,  were  two  oval  rag- 
carpet  rugs.  In  the  corners  of  the  room  were  muddy 
boots,  a  McClellan  saddle,  a  surveyor's  transit,  an  empty 
coal-hod  and  a  box  of  iron  bolts  and  nuts.  On  the  wall 
over  the  bed,  in  a  gilt  frame,  was  Annixter's  college  di- 
ploma, while  on  the  bureau,  amid  a  litter  of  hair-brushes. 


1 62  The  Octopus 

dirty  collars,  driving  gloves,  cigars  and  the  like,  stood  a 
broken  machine  for  loading  shells. 

It  was  essentially  a  man's  room,  rugged,  uncouth, 
virile,  full  of  the  odours  of  tobacco,  of  leather,  of  rusty 
iron;  the  bare  floor  hollowed  by  the  grind  of  hob-nailed 
boots,  the  walls  marred  by  the  friction  of  heavy  things  of 
metal.  Strangely  enough,  Annixter's  clothes  were  dis- 
posed of  on  the  single  chair  with  the  precision  of  an  old 
maid.  Thus  he  had  placed  them  the  night  before;  the 
boots  set  carefully  side  by  side,  the  trousers,  with  the 
overalls  still  upon  them,  neatly  folded  upon  the  seat  of 
the  chair,  the  coat  hanging  from  its  back. 

The  Quien  Sabe  ranch  house  was  a  six-room  affair, 
all  on  one  floor.  By  no  excess  of  charity  could  it  have 
been  called  a  home.  Annixter  was  a  wealthy  man;  he 
could  have  furnished  his  dwelling  with  quite  as  much 
elegance  as  that  of  Magnus  Derrick.  As  it  was,  how- 
ever, he  considered  his  house  merely  as  a  place  to  eat, 
to  sleep,  to  change  his  clothes  in ;  as  a  shelter  from  the 
rain,  an  office  where  business  was  transacted — nothing 
more. 

When  he  was  sufficiently  awake,  Annixter  thrust  his 
feet  into  a  pair  of  wicker  slippers,  and  shuffled  across 
the  office  adjoining  his  bedroom,  to  the  bathroom  just 
beyond,  and  stood  under  the  icy  shower  a  few  minutes, 
his  teeth  chattering,  fulminating  oaths  at  the  coldness  of 
the  water.  Still  shivering,  he  hurried  into  his  clothes, 
and,  having  pushed  the  button  of  the  electric  bell  to 
announce  that  he  was  ready  for  breakfast,  immediately 
plunged  into  the  business  of  the  day.  While  he  was  thus 
occupied,  the  butcher's  cart  from  Bonneville  drove  into 
the  yard  with  the  day's  supply  of  meat.  This  cart  also 
brought  the  Bonneville  paper  and  the  mail  of  the  pre- 
vious night.  In  the  bundle  of  correspondence  that  the 
butcher  handed  to  Annixter  that  morning,  was  a  tele- 


A  Story  of  California  163 

gram  from  Osterman,  at  that  time  on  his  second  trip  to 
Los  Angeles.    It  read: 

"  Flotation  of  company  in  this  district  assured.  Have  secured 
services  of  desirable  party.  Am  now  in  position  to  sell  you 
your  share  stock,  as  per  original  plan." 

Annixter  grunted  as  he  tore  the  despatch  into  strips. 

"  Well,"  he  muttered,  "  that  part  is  settled,  then." 

He  made  a  little  pile  of  the  torn  strips  on  the  top  of  the 
unlighted  stove,  and  burned  them  carefully,  scowling 
down  into  the  flicker  of  fire,  thoughtful  and  preoccupied. 

He  knew  very  well  what  Osterman  referred  to  by 
"  Flotation  of  company,"  and  also  who  was  the  "  desir- 
able party  "  he  spoke  of. 

Under  protest,  as  he  was  particular  to  declare,  and 
after  interminable  argument,  Annixter  had  allowed  him- 
self to  be  reconciled  with  Osterman,  and  to  be  persuaded 
to  reenter  the  proposed  political  "  deal."  A  committee 
had  been  formed  to  finance  the  affair — Osterman,  old 
Broderson,  Annixter  himself,  and,  with  reservations, 
hardly  more  than  a  looker-on,  Harran  Derrick.  Of  this 
committee,  Osterman  was  considered  chairman.  Mag- 
nus Derrick  had  formally  and  definitely  refused  his  ad- 
herence to  the  scheme.  He  was  trying  to  steer  a  middle 
course.  His  position  was  difficult,  anomalous.  If  freight 
rates  were  cut  through  the  efforts  of  the  members  of  the 
committee,  he  could  not  very  well  avoid  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  new  schedule.  He  would  be  the  gainer, 
though  sharing  neither  the  risk  nor  the  expense.  But, 
meanwhile,  the  days  were  passing;  the  primary  elections 
were  drawing  nearer.  The  committee  could  not  afford  to 
wait,  and  by  way  of  a  beginning,  Osterman  had  gone  to 
Los  Angeles,  fortified  by  a  large  sum  of  money — a  purse 
to  which  Annixter,  Broderson  and  himself  had  con- 
tributed. He  had  put  himself  in  touch  with  Disbrow, 


164  The  Octopus 

the  political  man  of  the  Denver,  Pueblo  and  Mojave  road, 
and  had  had  two  interviews  with  him.  The  telegram  that 
Annixter  received  that  morning  was  to  say  that  Disbrow 
had  been  bought  over,  and  would  adopt  Darrell  as  the 
D.,  P.  and  M.  candidate  for  Railroad  Commissioner  from 
the  third  district. 

One  of  the  cooks  brought  up  Annixter's  breakfast 
that  morning,  and  he  went  through  it  hastily,  reading  his 
mail  at  the  same  time  and  glancing  over  the  pages  of  the 
"  Mercury,"  Genslinger's  paper.  The  "  Mercury,"  An- 
nixter was  persuaded,  received  a  subsidy  from  the  Pacific 
and  Southwestern  Railroad,  and  was  hardly  better  than 
the  mouthpiece  by  which  Shelgrim  and  the  General  Of- 
fice spoke  to  ranchers  about  Bonneville. 

An  editorial  in  that  morning's  issue  said: 

"  It  would  not  be  surprising  to  the  well-informed,  if  the 
long-deferred  re-grade  of  the  value  of  the  railroad  sec- 
tions included  in  the  Los  Muertos,  Quien  Sabe,  Oster- 
man  and  Broderson  properties  was  made  before  the 
first  of  the  year.  Naturally,  the  tenants  of  these  lands 
feel  an  interest  in  the  price  which  the  railroad  will  put 
upon  its  holdings,  and  it  is  rumoured  they  expect  the  land 
will  be  offered  to  them  for  two  dollars  and  fifty  cents  per 
acre.  It  needs  no  seventh  daughter  of  a  seventh  daugh- 
ter to  foresee  that  these  gentlemen  will  be  disappointed." 

"  Rot!  "  vociferated  Annixter  to  himself  as  he  finished. 
He  rolled  the  paper  into  a  wad  and  hurled  it  from  him. 

"  Rot !  rot !  What  does  Genslinger  know  about  it  ?  I 
stand  on  my  agreement  with  the  P.  and  S.  W. — from  two 
fifty  to  five  dollars  an  acre — there  it  is  in  black  and  white. 
The  road  is  obligated.  And  my  improvements !  I  made 
the  land  valuable  by  improving  it,  irrigating  it,  draining 
it,  and  cultivating  it.  Talk  to  me.  I  know  better." 

The  most  abiding  impression  that  Genslinger's  edi- 
torial made  upon  him  was,  that  possibly  the  "  Mercury  " 


A  Story  of  California  165 

was  not  subsidised  by  the  corporation  after  all.  If  it  was, 
Genslinger  would  not  have  been  led  into  making  his  mis- 
take as  to  the  value  of  the  land.  He  would  have  known 
that  the  railroad  was  under  contract  to  sell  at  two  dollars 
and  a  half  an  acre,  and  not  only  this,  but  that  when  the 
land  was  put  upon  the  market,  it  was  to  be  offered  to 
the  present  holders  first  of  all.  Annixter  called  to 
mind  the  explicit  terms  of  the  agreement  between  him- 
self and  the  railroad,  and  dismissed  the  matter  from  his 
mind.  He  lit  a  cigar,  put  on  his  hat  and  went  out. 

The  morning  was  fine,  the  air  nimble,  brisk.  On  the 
summit  of  the  skeleton-like  tower  of  the  artesian  well, 
the  windmill  was  turning  steadily  in  a  breeze  from  the 
southwest.  The  water  in  the  irrigating  ditch  was  well 
up.  There  was  no  cloud  in  the  sky.  Far  off  to  the  east 
and  west,  the  bulwarks  of  the  valley,  the  Coast  Range 
and  the  foothills  of  the  Sierras  stood  out,  pale  amethyst 
against  the  delicate  pink  and  white  sheen  of  the  horizon. 
The  sunlight  was  a  veritable  flood,  crystal,  limpid,  spark- 
ling, setting  a  feeling  of  gayety  in  the  air,  stirring  up  an 
effervescence  in  the  blood,  a  tumult  of  exuberance  in  the 
veins. 

But  on  his  way  to  the  barns,  Annixter  was  obliged  to 
pass  by  the  open  door  of  the  dairy-house.  Hilma  Tree 
was  inside,  singing  at  her  work;  her  voice  of  a  velvety 
huskiness,  more  of  the  chest  than  of  the  throat,  mingling 
with  the  liquid  dashing  of  the  milk  in  the  vats  and  churns, 
and  the  clear,  sonorous  clinking  of  the  cans  and  pans. 
Annixter  turned  into  the  dairy-house,  pausing  on  the 
threshold,  looking  about  him,  Hilma  stood  bathed  from 
head  to  foot  in  the  torrent  of  sunlight  that  poured  in 
upon  her  from  the  three  wide-open  windows.  She  was 
charming,  delicious,  radiant  of  youth,  of  health,  of  well- 
being.  Into  her  eyes,  wide  open,  brown,  rimme3  with 
their  fine,  thin  line  of  intense  black  lashes,  the  sun  set  a 


1 66  The  Octopus 

diamond  flash;  the  same  golden  light  glowed  all  around 
her  thick,  moist  hair,  lambent,  beautiful,  a  sheen  of  al- 
most metallic  lustre,  and  reflected  itself  upon  her  wet 
lips,  moving  with  the  words  of  her  singing.  The  white- 
ness of  her  skin  under  the  caress  of  this  hale,  vigorous 
morning  light  was  dazzling,  pure,  of  a  fineness  beyond 
words.  Beneath  the  sweet  modulation  of  her  chin,  the 
reflected  light  from  the  burnished  copper  vessel  she  was 
carrying  set  a  vibration  of  pale  gold.  Overlaying  the 
flush  of  rose  in  her  cheeks,  seen  only  when  she  stood 
against  the  sunlight,  was  a  faint  sheen  of  down,  a  lustrous 
floss,  delicate  as  the  pollen  of  a  flower,  or  the  impalpable 
powder  of  a  moth's  wing.  She  was  moving  to  and  fro 
about  her  work,  alert,  joyous,  robust;  and  from  all  the 
fine,  full  amplitude  of  her  figure,  from  her  thick  white 
neck,  sloping  downward  to  her  shoulders,  from  the  deep, 
feminine  swell  of  her  breast,  the  vigorous  maturity  of 
her  hips,  there  was  disengaged  a  vibrant  note  of  gayety, 
of  exuberant  animal  life,  sane,  honest,  strong.  She  wore 
a  skirt  of  plain  blue  calico  and  a  shirtwaist  of  pink  linen, 
clean,  trim;  while  her  sleeves  turned  back  to  her  shoul- 
ders, showed  her  large,  white  arms,  wet  with  milk,  re- 
dolent and  fragrant  with  milk,  glowing  and  resplendent 
in  the  early  morning  light. 

On  the  threshold,  Annixter  took  off  his  hat. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Hilma." 

Hilma,  who  had  set  down  the  copper  can  on  top  of  the 
Vat,  turned  about  quickly. 

"Oh,  good  morning,  sir;"  and,  unconsciously,  she 
made  a  little  gesture  of  salutation  with  her  hand,  raising 
it  part  way  toward  her  head,  as  a  man  would  have  done. 

"  Well/'  began  Annixter  vaguely,  "  how  are  you  get- 
ting along  down  here?  " 

"  Oh,  very  fine.  To-day,  there  is  not  so  much  to  do. 
We  drew  the  whey  hours  ago,  and  now  we  are  just  done 


A  Story  of  California  167 

putting  the  curd  to  press.  I  have  been  cleaning.  See  my 
pans.  Wouldn't  they  do  for  mirrors,  sir?  And  the  cop- 
per things.  I  have  scrubbed  and  scrubbed.  Oh,  you 
can  look  into  the  tiniest  corners,  everywhere,  you  won't 
find  so  much  as  the  littlest  speck  of  dirt  or  grease.  I 
love  clean  things,  and  this  room  is  my  own  particu- 
lar place.  Here  I  can  do  just  as  I  please,  and  that  is, 
to  keep  the  cement  floor,  and  the  vats,  and  the  churns 
and  the  separators,  and  especially  the  cans  and  coppers, 
clean;  clean,  and  to  see  that  the  milk  is  pure,  oh,  so  that  a 
little  baby  could  drink  it;  and  to  have  the  air  always 
sweet,  and  the  sun — oh,  lots  and  lots  of  sun,  morning, 
noon  and  afternoon,  so  that  everything  shines.  You 
know,  I  never  see  the  sun  set  that  it  don't  make  me  a 
little  sad;  yes,  always,  just  a  little.  Isn't  it  funny?  I 
should  want  it  to  be  day  all  the  time.  And  when  the  day 
is  gloomy  and  dark,  I  am  just  as  sad  as  if  a  very  good 
friend  of  mine  had  left  me.  Would  you  believe  it?  Just 
until  within  a  few  years,  when  I  was  a  big  girl,  sixteen 
and  over,  mamma  had  to  sit  by  my  bed  every  night  before 
I  could  go  to  sleep.  I  was  afraid  in  the  dark.  Sometimes 
I  am  now.  Just  imagine,  and  now  I  am  nineteen — a 
young  lady." 

"  You  were,  hey?  "  observed  Annixter,  for  the  sake  of 
saying  something.  "Afraid  in  the  dark?  What  of — 
ghosts  ?  " 

"  N-no;  I  don't  know  what.  I  wanted  the  light,  I 

wanted "  She  drew  a  deep  breath,  turning  towards 

the  window  and  spreading  her  pink  finger-tips  to  the 
light.  "  Oh,  the  sun.  I  love  the  sun.  See,  put  your 
hand  there — here  on  the  top  of  the  vat — like  that.  Isn't 
it  warm?  Isn't  it  fine?  And  don't  you  love  to  see  it 
coming  in  like  that  through  the  windows,  floods  of  it; 
and  all  the  little  dust  in  it  shining?  Where  there  is  lots 
of  sunlight,  I  think  the  people  must  be  very  good.  It's 


1 68  The  Octopus 

only  wicked  people  that  love  the  dark.  And  the  wicked 
things  are  always  done  and  planned  in  the  dark,  I  think. 
Perhaps,  too,  that's  why  I  hate  things  that  are  myste- 
rious— things  that  I  can't  see,  that  happen  in  the  dark." 
She  wrinkled  her  nose  with  a  little  expression  of  aver- 
sion. "  I  hate  a  mystery.  Maybe  that's  why  I  am  afraid 
in  the  dark — or  was.  I  shouldn't  like  to  think  that  any- 
thing could  happen  around  me  that  I  couldn't  see  or  un- 
derstand or  explain." 

She  ran  on  from  subject  to  subject,  positively  gar- 
rulous, talking  in  her  low-pitched  voice  of  velvety  huski- 
ness  for  the  mere  enjoyment  of  putting  her  ideas  into 
speech,  innocently  assuming  that  they  were  quite  as 
interesting  to  others  as  to  herself.  She  was  yet  a  great 
child,  ignoring  the  fact  that  she  had  ever  grown  up,  tak- 
ing a  child's  interest  in  her  immediate  surroundings,  di- 
rect, straightforward,  plain.  While  speaking,  she  con- 
tinued about  her  work,  rinsing  out  the  cans  with  a  mix- 
ture of  hot  water  and  soda,  scouring  them  bright,  and 
piling  them  in  the  sunlight  on  top  of  the  vat. 

Obliquely,  and  from  between  his  narrowed  lids,  An- 
nixter  scrutinised  her  from  time  to  time,  more  and  more 
won  over  by  her  adorable  freshness,  her  clean,  fine  youth. 
The  clumsiness  that  he  usually  experienced  in  the  pres- 
ence of  women  was  wearing  off.  Hilma  Tree's  direct 
simplicity  put  him  at  his  ease.  He  began  to  wonder  if 
he  dared  to  kiss  Hilma,  and  if  he  did  dare,  how  she 
would  take  it.  A  spark  of  suspicion  flickered  up  in  his 
mind.  Did  not  her  manner  imply,  vaguely,  an  invitation? 
One  never  could  tell  with  feemales.  That  was  why  she 
was  talking  so  much,  no  doubt,  holding  him  there,  af- 
fording the  opportunity.  Aha!  She  had  best  look  out, 
or  he  would  take  her  at  her  word. 

"  Oh,  I  had  forgotten,"  suddenly  exclaimed  Hilma, 
"  the  very  thing  I  wanted  to  show  you — the  new  press. 


A  Story  of  California  169 

You  remember  I  asked  for  one  last  month?  This  is  it. 
See,  this  is  how  it  works.  Here  is  where  the  curds  go ; 
look.  And  this  cover  is  screwed  down  like  this,  and  then 
you  work  the  lever  this  way."  She  grasped  the  lever  in 
both  hands,  throwing  her  weight  upon  it,  her  smooth, 
bare  arm  swelling  round  and  firm  with  the  effort,  one 
slim  foot,  in  its  low  shoe  set  off  with  the  bright,  steel 
buckle,  braced  against  the  wall. 

"  My,  but  that  takes  strength,"  she  panted,  looking  up 
at  him  and  smiling.  "But  isn't  it  a  fine  press?  Just 
what  we  needed." 

"  And,"  Annixter  cleared  his  throat,  "  and  where  do 
you  keep  the  cheeses  and  the  butter?"  He  thought  it 
very  likely  that  these  were  in  the  cellar  of  the  dairy. 

"  In  the  cellar,"  answered  Hilma.  "  Down  here,  see?  " 
She  raised  the  flap  of  the  cellar  door  at  the  end  of  the 
room.  "  Would  you  like  to  see?  Come  down;  I'll  show 
you." 

She  went  before  him  down  into  the  cool  obscurity  un- 
derneath, redolent  of  new  cheese  and  fresh  butter.  An- 
nixter followed,  a  certain  excitement  beginning  to  gain 
upon  him.  He  was  almost  sure  now  that  Hilma  wanted 
him  to  kiss  her.  At  all  events,  one  could  but  try.  But, 
as  yet,  he  was  not  absolutely  sure.  Suppose  he  had  been 
mistaken  in  her;  suppose  she  should  consider  herself  in- 
sulted and  freeze  him  with  an  icy  stare.  Annixter  winced 
at  the  very  thought  of  it.  Better  let  the  whole  business 
go,  and  get  to  work.  He  was  wasting  half  the  morning. 
Yet,  if  she  did  want  to  give  him  the  opportunity  of 
kissing  her,  and  he  failed  to  take  advantage  of  it,  what  a 
ninny  she  would  think  him;  she  would  despise  him  for 
being  afraid.  He  afraid!  He,  Annixter,  afraid  of  a  fool, 
feemale  girl.  Why,  he  owed  it  to  himself  as  a  man  to  go 
as  far  as  he  could.  He  told  himself  that  that  goat  Oster- 
man  would  have  kissed  Hilma  Tree  weeks  ago.  To  test 


170  The  Octopus 

his  state  of  mind,  he  imagined  himself  as  having  decided 
to  kiss  her,  after  all,  and  at  once  was  surprised  to  experi- 
ence a  poignant  qualm  of  excitement,  his  heart  beating 
heavily,  his  breath  coming  short.  At  the  same  time,  his 
courage  remained  with  him.  He  was  not  afraid  to  try. 
He  felt  a  greater  respect  for  himself  because  of  this.  His 
self-assurance  hardened  within  him,  and  as  Hilma  turned 
to  him,  asking  him  to  taste  a  cut  from  one  of  the  ripe 
cheeses,  he  suddenly  stepped  close  to  her,  throwing  an 
arm  about  her  shoulders,  advancing  his  head. 

But  at  the  last  second,  he  bungled,  hesitated;  Hilma 
shrank  from  him,  supple  as  a  young  reed;  Annixter 
clutched  harshly  at  her  arm,  and  trod  his  full  weight  upon 
one  of  her  slender  feet,  his  cheek  and  chin  barely  touch- 
ing the  delicate  pink  lobe  of  one  of  her  ears,  his  lips 
brushing  merely  a  fold  of  her  shirt  waist  between  neck 
and  shoulder.  The  thing  was  a  failure,  and  at  once  he 
realised  that  nothing  had  been  further  from  Hilma's 
mind  than  the  idea  of  his  kissing  her. 

She  started  back  from  him  abruptly,  her  hands  ner- 
vously clasped  against  her  breast,  drawing  in  her  breath 
sharply  and  holding  it  with  a  little,  tremulous  catch  of 
the  throat  that  sent  a  quivering  vibration  the  length  of 
her  smooth,  white  neck.  Her  eyes  opened  wide  with  a 
childlike  look,  more  of  astonishment  than  anger.  She 
was  surprised,  out  of  all  measure,  discountenanced,  taken 
all  aback,  and  when  she  found  her  breath,  gave  voice  to  a 
great  "  Oh  "  of  dismay  and  distress. 

For  an  instant,  Annixter  stood  awkwardly  in  his  place, 
ridiculous,  clumsy,  murmuring  over  and  over  again: 

"  Well — well — that's  all  right — who's  going  to  hurt 
you?  You  needn't  be  afraid — who's  going  to  hurt  you — 
that's  all  right." 

Then,  suddenly,  with  a  quick,  indefinite  gesture  of  one 
arm,  he  exclaimed: 


A  Story  of  California  171 

"  Good-bye,  I— I'm  sorry/" 

He  turned  away,  striding  up  the  stairs,  crossing  the 
dairy-room,  and  regained  the  open  air,  raging  and 
furious.  He  turned  toward  the  barns,  clapping  his  hat 
upon  his  head,  muttering  the  while  under  his  breath: 

"Oh,  you  goat!  You  beastly  fool  pip.  Good  Lord, 
what  an  ass  you've  made  of  yourself  now!  " 

Suddenly  he  resolved  to  put  Hilma  Tree  out  of  his 
thoughts.  The  matter  was  interfering  with  his  work. 
This  kind  of  thing  was  sure  not  earning  any  money.  He 
shook  himself  as  though  freeing  his  shoulders  of  an 
irksome  burden,  and  turned  his  entire  attention  to  the 
work  nearest  at  hand. 

The  prolonged  rattle  of  the  shinglers'  hammers  upon 
the  roof  of  the  big  barn  attracted  him,  and,  crossing  over 
between  the  ranch  house  and  the  artesian  well,  he  stood 
for  some  time  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  vast 
building,  amused  and  interested  with  the  confusion  of 
sounds — the  clatter  of  hammers,  the  cadenced  scrape 
of  saws,  and  the  rhythmic  shuffle  of  planes — that  issued 
from  the  gang  of  carpenters  who  were  at  that  moment 
putting  the  finishing  touches  upon  the  roof  and  rows  of 
stalls.  A  boy  and  two  men  were  busy  hanging  the  great 
sliding  door  at  the  south  end,  while  the  painters — come 
down  from  Bonneville  early  that  morning — were  en- 
gaged in  adjusting  the  spray  and  force  engine,  by  means 
of  which  Annixter  had  insisted  upon  painting  the  vast 
surfaces  of  the  barn,  condemning  the  use  of  brushes  and 
pots  for  such  work  as  old-fashioned  and  out-of-date. 

He  called  to  one  of  the  foremen,  to  ask  when  the  barn 
would  be  entirely  finished,  and  was  told  that  at  the  end 
of  the  week  the  hay  and  stock  could  be  installed. 

"  And  a  precious  long  time  you've  been  at  it,  too/' 
Annixter  declared. 

"  Well,  you  know  the  rain " 


172  The  Octopus 

"  Oh,  rot  the  rain!  /  work  in  the  rain.  You  and  your 
unions  make  me  sick." 

"  But,  Mr.  Annixter,  we  couldn't  have  begun  painting 
in  the  rain.  The  job  would  have  been  spoiled." 

"  Hoh,  yes,  spoiled.  That's  all  very  well.  Maybe 
it  would,  and  then,  again,  maybe  it  wouldn't." 

But  when  the  foreman  had  left  him,  Annixter  could  not 
forbear  a  growl  of  satisfaction.  It  could  not  be  denied 
that  the  barn  was  superb,  monumental  even.  Almost 
any  one  of  the  other  barns  in  the  county  could  be  swung, 
bird-cage  fashion,  inside  of  it,  with  room  to  spare.  In 
every  sense,  the  barn  was  precisely  what  Annixter  had 
hoped  of  it.  In  his  pleasure  over  the  success  of  his  idea, 
even  Hilma  for  the  moment  was  forgotten. 

"  And,  now,"  murmured  Annixter,  "  I'll  give  that 
dance  in  it.  I'll  make  'em  sit  up." 

It  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  better  set  about  sending 
out  the  invitations  for  the  affair.  He  was  puzzled  to  de- 
cide just  how  the  thing  should  be  managed,  and  resolved 
that  it  might  be  as  well  to  consult  Magnus  and  Mrs. 
Derrick. 

"  I  want  to  talk  of  this  telegram  of  the  goat's  with 
Magnus,  anyhow,"  he  said  to  himself  reflectively,  "  and 
there's  things  I  got  to  do  in  Bonneville  before  the  first  of 
the  month." 

He  turned  about  on  his  heel  with  a  last  look  at  the 
barn,  and  set  off  toward  the  stable.  He  had  decided  to 
have  his  horse  saddled  and  ride  over  to  Bonneville  by 
way  of  Los  Muertos.  He  would  make  a  day  of  it,  would 
see  Magnus,  Harran,  old  Broderson  and  some  of  the 
business  men  of  Bonneville. 

A  few  moments  later,  he  rode  out  of  the  barn  and  the 
stable-yard,  a  fresh  cigar  between  his  teeth,  his  hat 
slanted  over  his  face  against  the  rays  of  the  sun,  as  yet 
low  in  the  east.  He  crossed  the  irrigating  ditch  and 


A  Story  of  California  173 

gained  the  trail — the  short  cut  over  into  Los  Muertos, 
by  way  of  Hooven's.  It  led  south  and  west  into  the  low 
ground  overgrown  by  grey-green  willows  by  Broderson 
Creek,  at  this  time  of  the  rainy  season  a  stream  of  con- 
siderable volume,  farther  on  dipping  sharply  to  pass 
underneath  the  Long  Trestle  of  the  railroad.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  right  of  way,  Annixter  was  obliged  to 
open  the  gate  in  Derrick's  line  fence.  He  managed  this 
without  dismounting,  swearing  at  the  horse  the  while, 
and  spurring  him  continually.  But  once  inside  the  gate 
he  cantered  forward  briskly. 

This  part  of  Los  Muertos  was  Hooven's  holding,  some 
five  hundred  acres  enclosed  between  the  irrigating  ditch 
and  Broderson  Creek,  and  half  the  way  across,  Annixter 
came  up  with  Hooven  himself,  busily  at  work  replacing 
a  broken  washer  in  his  seeder.  Upon  one  of  the  horses 
hitched  to  the  machine,  her  hands  gripped  tightly  upon 
the  harness  of  the  collar,  Hilda,  his  little  daughter,  with 
her  small,  hob-nailed  boots  and  boy's  canvas  overalls,  sat, 
exalted  and  petrified  with  ecstasy  and  excitement,  her 
eyes  wide  opened,  her  hair  in  a  tangle. 

"  Hello,  Bismarck,"  said  Annixter,  drawing  up  beside 
him.  "  What  are  you  doing  here?  I  thought  the  Gov- 
ernor was  going  to  manage  without  his  tenants  this 
year." 

"  Ach,  Meest'r  Ennixter,"  cried  the  other,  straighten- 
ing up.  "  Ach,  dat's  you,  eh?  Ach,  you  bedt  he  doand 
menege  mitout  me.  Me,  I  gotta  stay.  I  talk  der  straighd 
talk  mit  der  Governor.  I  fix  'em.  Ach,  you  bedt. 
Sieben  yahr  I  hef  bei  der  rench  ge-stopped ;  yais,  sir. 
Efery  oder  sohn-of-a-guhn  bei  der  plaice  ged  der  sach 
bud  me.  Eh  ?  Wat  you  tink  von  dose  ting  ?  " 

"  I  think  that's  a  crazy-looking  monkey-wrench  you've 
got  there,"  observed  Annixter,  glancing  at  the  instru- 
ment in  Hooven's  hand. 


*74  The  Octopus 

"  Ach,  dot  wrainch,"  returned  Hooven.  "  Soh !  Wail^ 
I  tell  you  dose  ting  now  whair  I  got  'em.  Say,  you  see 
dot  wrainch.  Dat's  not  Emericen  wrainch  at  aile.  I 
got  'em  at  Gravelotte  der  day  we  licked  der  stuffun  oudt 
der  Frainch,  ach,  you  bedt.  Me,  I  pelong  to  der  Wur- 
temberg  redgimend,  dot  dey  use  to  suppord  der  batterie 
von  der  Brince  von  Hohenlohe.  Alle  der  day  we  lay  down 
bei  der  stomach  in  der  feildt  behindt  der  batterie,  und 
der  schells  von  der  Frainch  cennon  hef  eggsblode — 
ach,  donnerwetter ! — I  tink  efery  schell  eggsblode  bei  der 
beckside  my  neck.  Und  dat  go  on  der  whole  day,  nod- 
xiun  else,  noddun  aber  der  Frainch  schell,  b-r-r,  b-r-r, 
b-r-r,  b-r-am,  und  der  smoag,  und  unzer  batterie,  dat  go 
off  slow,  steady,  yoost  like  der  glock,  eins,  zwei,  boom ! 
€ins,  zwei,  boom!  yoost  like  der  glock,  ofer  und  ofer 
again,  alle  der  day.  Den  vhen  der  night  come  dey  say  we 
liev  der  great  victorie  made.  I  doand  know.  Vhat  do  I 
see  von  der  bettle?  Noddun.  Den  we  gedt  oop  und 
maerch  und  maerch  alle  night,  und  in  der  morgen  we 
hear  dose  cennon  egain,  hell  oaf  der  way,  far-off,  I  doand 
know  vhair.  Budt,  nef'r  mindt.  Bretty  quick,  ach, 
Gott — "  his  face  flamed  scarlet,  "Ach,  du  licbcr  Gott! 
Bretty  zoon,  dere  wass  der  Kaiser,  glose  bei,  und  Fritz, 
Unzer  Fritz.  Bei  Gott,  den  I  go  grazy,  und  yell,  ach, 
you  bedt,  der  whole  redgimend :  '  Hock  der  Kaiser! 
Hoch  der  Vaterland! '  Und  der  dears  come  to  der  eyes,  I 
doand  know  because  vhy,  und  der  mens  gry  und  shaike 
der  hend,  und  der  whole  redgimend  maerch  off  like  dat, 
fairy  broudt,  bei  Gott,  der  head  oop  high,  und  sing  '  Die 
Wacht  am  Rhein.'  Dot  wass  Gravelotte." 

"  And  the  monkey-wrench?  " 

"  Ach,  I  pick  'um  oop  vhen  der  batterie  go.  Der 
cennoniers  hef  forgedt  und  leaf  'um.  I  carry  'um  in  der 
sack.  I  tink  I  use  'um  vhen  I  gedt  home  in  der  business. 
I  was  maker  von  vagons  in  Carlsruhe,  und  I  nef'r  gedt 


A  Story  of  California  175 

home  again.  Vhen  der  war  hef  godt  over,  I  go  beck  to 
Ulm  und  gedt  marriet,  und  den  I  gedt  demn  sick  von  der 
armie.  Vhen  I  gedt  der  release,  I  clair  oudt,  you  bedt. 
I  come  to  Emerica.  First,  New  Yor-ruk ;  den  Milwau- 
kee ;  den  Sbringfieldt-Illinoy ;  den  Galifornie,  und  heir  I 
stay." 

"  And  the  Fatherland  ?    Ever  want  to  go  back  ?  " 

"  Wail,  I  tell  you  dose  ting,  Meest'r  Ennixter.  Alle- 
ways,  I  tink  a  lot  oaf  Shairmany,  und  der  Kaiser,  und 
nef  r  I  forgedt  Gravelotte.  Budt,  say,  I  tell  you  dose  ting. 
Vhair  der  wife  is,  und  der  kinder — der  leedle  girl  Hilda — 
dere  is  der  Vaterland.  Eh  ?  Emerica,  dat's  my  gountry 
now,  und  dere,"  he  pointed  behind  him  to  the  house 
under  the  mammoth  oak  tree  on  the  Lower  Road,  "  dat's 
my  home.  Dat's  goot  enough  Vaterland  for  me." 

Annixter  gathered  up  the  reins,  about  to  go  on. 

"So  you  like  America,  do  you,  Bismarck?"  he  said. 
"  Who  do  you  vote  for  ?  " 

"  Emerica?  I  doand  know,"  returned  the  other,  in- 
sistently. "  Dat's  my  home  yonder.  Dat's  my  Vater- 
land. Alle  von  we  Shairmens  yoost  like  dot.  Shairmany, 
dot's  hell  oaf  some  fine  plaice,  sure.  Budt  der  Vaterland 
iss  vhair  der  home  und  der  wife  und  kinder  iss.  Eh? 
Yes  ?  Voad?  Ach,  no.  Me,  I  nef'r  voad.  I  doand  bod- 
der  der  haid  mit  dose  ting.  I  maig  der  wheat  grow,  und 
ged  der  braid  fur  der  wife  und  Hilda,  dot's  all.  Dot's  me; 
dot's  Bismarck." 

"  Good-bye,"  commented  Annixter,  moving  off. 

Hooven,  the  washer  replaced,  turned  to  his  work 
again,  starting  up  the  horses.  The  seeder  advanced, 
whirring. 

"  Ach,  Hilda,  leedle  girl,"  he  cried,  "  hold  tight  bei  der 
shdrap  on.  Hey  mule!  Hoop!  Gedt  oop,  you." 

Annixter  cantered  on.  In  a  few  moments,  he  had 
crossed  Broderson  Creek  and  had  entered  upon  the 


1 76  The  Octopus 

Home  ranch  of  Los  Muertos.  Ahead  of  him,  but  so  far 
off  that  the  greater  portion  of  its  bulk  was  below  the 
horizon,  he  could  see  the  Derricks'  home,  a  roof  or  two 
between  the  dull  green  of  cypress  and  eucalyptus.  Noth- 
ing else  was  in  sight.  The  brown  earth,  smooth,  un- 
broken, was  as  a  limitless,  mud-coloured  ocean.  The 
silence  was  profound. 

Then,  at  length,  Annixter's  searching  eye  made  out  a 
blur  on  the  horizon  to  the  northward ;  the  blur  concen- 
trated itself  to  a  speck;  the  speck  grew  by  steady  de- 
grees to  a  spot,  slowly  moving,  a  note  of  dull  colour, 
barely  darker  than  the  land,  but  an  inky  black  silhouette 
as  it  topped  a  low  rise  of  ground  and  stood  for  a  moment 
outlined  against  the  pale  blue  of  the  sky.  Annixter 
turned  his  horse  from  the  road  and  rode  across  the  ranch 
land  to  meet  this  new  object  of  interest.  As  the  spot 
grew  larger,  it  resolved  itself  into  constituents,  a  collec- 
tion of  units ;  its  shape  grew  irregular,  fragmentary.  A 
disintegrated,  nebulous  confusion  advanced  toward  An- 
nixter, preceded,  as  he  discovered  on  nearer  approach, 
by  a  medley  of  faint  sounds.  Now  it  was  no  longer  a 
spot,  but  a  column,  a  column  that  moved,  accompanied 
by  spots.  As  Annixter  lessened  the  distance,  these  spots 
resolved  themselves  into  buggies  or  men  on  horseback 
that  kept  pace  with  the  advancing  column.  There  were 
horses  in  the  column  itself.  At  first  glance,  it  appeared 
as  if  there  were  nothing  else,  a  riderless  squadron  tramp- 
ing steadily  over  the  upturned  plough  land  of  the  ranch. 
But  it  drew  nearer.  The  horses  were  in  lines,  six  abreast, 
harnessed  to  machines.  The  noise  increased,  defined 
itself.  There  was  a  shout  or  two;  occasionally  a  horse 
blew  through  his  nostrils  with  a  prolonged,  vibrating 
snort.  The  click  and  clink  of  metal  work  was  incessant, 
the  machines  throwing  off  a  continual  rattle  of  wheels 
and  cogs  and  clashing  springs.  The  column  approached 


A  Story  of  California  177 

nearer ;  was  close  at  hand.  The  noises  mingled  to  a  sub- 
dued uproar,  a  bewildering  confusion;  the  impact  of  in- 
numerable hoofs  was  a  veritable  rumble.  Machine  after 
machine  appeared ;  and  Annixter,  drawing  to  one  side, 
remained  for  nearly  ten  minutes  watching  and  interested, 
while,  like  an  array  of  chariots — clattering,  jostling, 
creaking,  clashing,  an  interminable  procession,  machine 
succeeding  machine,  six-horse  team  succeeding  six- 
horse  team  —  bustling,  hurried  —  Magnus  Derrick' s 
thirty-three  grain  drills,  each  with  its  eight  hoes,  went 
clamouring  past,  like  an  advance  of  military,  seeding  the 
ten  thousand  acres  of  the  great  ranch ;  fecundating  the 
living  soil;  implanting  deep  in  the  dark  womb  of  the 
Earth  the  germ  of  life,  the  sustenance  of  a  whole  world, 
the  food  of  an  entire  People. 

When  the  drills  had  passed,  Annixter  turned  and  rode 
back  to  the  Lower  Road,  over  the  land  now  thick  with 
seed.  He  did  not  wonder  that  the  seeding  on  Los 
Muertos  seemed  to  be  hastily  conducted.  Magnus  and 
Harran  Derrick  had  not  yet  been  able  to  make  up  the 
time  lost  at  the  beginning  of  the  season,  when  they  had 
waited  so  long  for  the  ploughs  to  arrive.  They  had  been 
behindhand  all  the  time.  On  Annixter's  ranch,  the  land 
had  not  only  been  harrowed,  as  well  as  seeded,  but  in 
some  cases,  cross-harrowed  as  well.  The  labour  of  put- 
ting in  the  vast  crop  was  over.  Now  there  was  nothing  to 
do  but  wait,  while  the  seed  silently  germinated ;  nothing 
to  do  but  watch  for  the  wheat  to  come  up. 

When  Annixter  reached  the  ranch  house  of  Los 
Muertos,  under  the  shade  of  the  cypress  and  eucalyptus 
trees,  he  found  Mrs.  Derrick  on  the  porch,  seated  in  a 
long  wicker  chair.  She  had  been  washing  her  hair,  and 
the  light  brown  locks  that  yet  retained  so  much  of  their 
brightness,  were  carefully  spread  in  the  sun  over  the 
back  of  her  chair.  Annixter  could  not  but  remark  that, 


178  The  Octopus 

spite  of  her  more  than  fifty  years,  Annie  Derrick  was  yet 
rather  pretty.  Her  eyes  were  still  those  of  a  young  girl, 
just  touched  with  an  uncertain  expression  of  innocence 
and  inquiry,  but  as  her  glance  fell  upon  him,  he  found 
that  that  expression  changed  to  one  of  uneasiness,  of 
distrust,  almost  of  aversion. 

The  night  before  this,  after  Magnus  and  his  wife  had 
gone  to  bed,  they  had  lain  awake  for  hours,  staring  up 
into  the  dark,  talking,  talking.  Magnus  had  not  long 
been  able  to  keep  from  his  wife  the  news  of  the  coalition 
that  was  forming  against  the  railroad,  nor  the  fact  that 
this  coalition  was  determined  to  gain  its  ends  by  any 
means  at  its  command.  He  had  told  her  of  Osterman's 
scheme  of  a  fraudulent  election  to  seat  a  Board  of  Rail- 
road Commissioners,  who  should  be  nominees  of  the 
farming  interests.  Magnus  and  his  wife  had  talked  this 
matter  over  and  over  again;  and  the  same  discussion, 
begun  immediately  after  supper  the  evening  before,  had 
lasted  till  far  into  the  night. 

At  once,  Annie  Derrick  had  been  seized  with  a  sudden 
terror  lest  Magnus,  after  all,  should  allow  himself  to  be 
persuaded ;  should  yield  to  the  pressure  that  was  every 
day  growing  stronger.  None  better  than  she  knew  the 
iron  integrity  of  her  husband's  character.  None  better 
than  she  remembered  how  his  dearest  ambition,  that  of 
political  preferment,  had  been  thwarted  by  his  refusal  to 
truckle,  to  connive,  to  compromise  with  his  ideas  of 
right.  Now,  at  last,  there  seemed  to  be  a  change.  Long 
continued  oppression,  petty  tyranny,  injustice  and  ex- 
tortion had  driven  him  to  exasperation.  S.  Behrman's 
insults  still  rankled.  He  seemed  nearly  ready  to  coun- 
tenance Osterman's  scheme.  The  very  fact  that  he  was 
willing  to  talk  of  it  to  her  so  often  and  at  such  great 
length,  was  proof  positive  that  it  occupied  his  mind. 
The  pity  of  it,  the  tragedy  of  it!  He,  Magnus,  the 


A  Story  of  California  1 79 

"  Governor,"  who  had  been  so  staunch,  so  rigidly  up- 
right, so  loyal  to  his  convictions,  so  bitter  in  his  denun- 
ciation of  the  New  Politics,  so  scathing  in  his  attacks  on 
bribery  and  corruption  in  high  places ;  was  it  possible 
that  now,  at  last,  he  could  be  brought  to  withhold  his 
condemnation  of  the  devious  intrigues  of  the  unscrupu- 
lous, going  on  there  under  his  very  eyes  ?  That  Magnus 
should  not  command  Harran  to  refrain  from  all  inter- 
course with  the  conspirators,  had  been  a  matter  of  vast 
surprise  to  Mrs.  Derrick.  Time  was  when  Magnus 
would  have  forbidden  his  son  to  so  much  as  recognise 
a  dishonourable  man. 

But  besides  all  this,  Derrick's  wife  trembled  at  the 
thought  of  her  husband  and  son  engaging  in  so  desperate 
a  grapple  with  the  railroad — that  great  monster,  iron- 
hearted,  relentless,  infinitely  powerful.  Always  it  had 
issued  triumphant  from  the  fight;  always  S.  Behrman, 
the  Corporation's  champion,  remained  upon  the  field 
as  victor,  placid,  unperturbed,  unassailable.  But  now  a 
more  terrible  struggle  than  any  hitherto  loomed  menac- 
ing over  the  rim  of  the  future ;  money  was  to  be  spent 
like  water ;  personal  reputations  were  to  be  hazarded  in 
the  issue ;  failure  meant  ruin  in  all  directions,  financial 
ruin,  moral  ruin,  ruin  of  prestige,  ruin  of  character. 
Success,  to  her  mind,  was  almost  impossible.  Annie 
Derrick  feared  the  railroad.  At  night,  when  everything 
else  was  still,  the  distant  roar  of  passing  trains  echoed 
across  Los  Muertos,  from  Guadalajara,  from  Bonneville, 
or  from  the  Long  Trestle,  straight  into  her  heart.  At 
such  moments  she  saw  very  plainly  the  galloping  terror 
of  steam  and  steel,  with  its  single  eye,  cyclopean,  red, 
shooting  from  horizon  to  horizon,  symbol  of  a  vast 
power,  huge  and  terrible;  the  leviathan  with  tentacles  of 
steel,  to  oppose  which  meant  to  be  ground  to  instant  de- 
struction beneath  the  clashing  wheels.  No,  it  was  better 


i8o  The  Octopus 

to  submit,  to  resign  oneself  to  the  inevitable.  She  ob- 
literated herself,  shrinking  from  the  harshness  of  the 
world,  striving,  with  vain  hands,  to  draw  her  husband 
back  with  her. 

Just  before  Annixter's  arrival,  she  had  been  sitting, 
thoughtful,  in  her  long  chair,  an  open  volume  of  poems 
turned  down  upon  her  lap,  her  glance  losing  itself  in  the 
immensity  of  Los  Muertos  that,  from  the  edge  of  the 
lawn  close  by,  unrolled  itself,  gigantic,  toward  the  far, 
southern  horizon,  wrinkled  and  serrated  after  the  sea- 
son's ploughing.  The  earth,  hitherto  grey  with  dust, 
was  now  upturned  and  brown.  As  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  it  was  empty  of  all  life,  bare,  mournful,  absolutely 
still ;  and,  as  she  looked,  there  seemed  to  her  morbid 
imagination — diseased  and  disturbed  with  long  brooding, 
sick  with  the  monotony  of  repeated  sensation — to  be 
disengaged  from  all  this  immensity,  a  sense  of  a  vast 
oppression,  formless,  disquieting.  The  terror  of  sheer 
bigness  grew  slowly  in  her  mind;  loneliness  beyond 
words  gradually  enveloped  her.  She  was  lost  in  all  these 
limitless  reaches  of  space.  Had  she  been  abandoned  in 
mid-ocean,  in  an  open  boat,  her  terror  could  hardly  have 
been  greater.  She  felt  vividly  that  certain  uncongeniality 
which,  when  all  is  said,  forever  remains  betwreen  humanity 
and  the  earth  which  supports  it.  She  recognised  the 
colossal  indifference  of  nature,  not  hostile,  even  kindly 
and  friendly,  so  long  as  the  human  ant-swarm  was  sub- 
missive, working  with  it,  hurrying  along  at  its  side  in  the 
mysterious  march  of  the  centuries.  Let,  however,  the 
insect  rebel,  strive  to  make  head  against  the  power  of 
this  nature,  and  at  once  it  became  relentless,  a  gigantic 
engine,  a  vast  power,  huge,  terrible;  a  leviathan  with  a 
heart  of  steel,  knowing  no  compunction,  no  forgiveness, 
no  tolerance;  crushing  out  the  human  atom  with  sound- 
less calm,  the  agony  of  destruction  sending  never  a  jar, 


A  Story  of  California  18 1 

never  the  faintest  tremour  through  all  that  prodigious 
mechanism  of  wheels  and  cogs. 

Such  thoughts  as  these  did  not  take  shape  distinctly  in 
her  mind.  She  could  not  have  told  herself  exactly  what 
it  was  that  disquieted  her.  She  only  received  the  vague 
sensation  of  these  things,  as  it  were  a  breath  of  wind 
upon  her  face,  confused,  troublous,  an  indefinite  sense 
of  hostility  in  the  air. 

The  sound  of  hoofs  grinding  upon  the  gravel  of  the 
driveway  brought  her  to  herself  again,  and,  withdrawing 
her  gaze  from  the  empty  plain  of  Los  Muertos,  she  saw 
young  Annixter  stopping  his  horse  by  the  carriage  steps. 
But  the  sight  of  him  only  diverted  her  mind  to  the  other 
trouble.  She  could  not  but  regard  him  with  aversion. 
He  was  one  of  the  conspirators,  was  one  of  the  leaders 
in  the  battle  that  impended;  no  doubt,  he  had  come  to 
,,  make  a  fresh  attempt  to  win  over  Magnus  to  the  unholy 
alliance. 

However,  there  was  little  trace  of  enmity  in  her  greet- 
ing. Her  hair  was  still  spread,  like  a  broad  patch  of 
brown  sea-weed,  upon  the  white  towel  over  the  chair- 
back,  and  she  made  that  her  excuse  for  not  getting  up. 
In  answer  to  Annixter's  embarrassed  inquiry  after  Mag- 
nus, she  sent  the  Chinese  cook  to  call  him  from  the  office ; 
and  Annixter,  after  tying  his  horse  to  the  ring  driven 
into  the  trunk  of  one  of  the  eucalyptus  trees,  came  up  to 
the  porch,  and,  taking  off  his  hat,  sat  down  upon  the 
steps. 

"  Is  Harran  anywhere  about  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I'd  like  to 
see  Harran,  too." 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Derrick,  "  Harran  went  to  Bonne- 
ville  early  this  morning." 

She  glanced  toward  Annixter  nervously,  without 
turning  her  head,  lest  she  should  disturb  her  outspread 
hair. 


1 82  The  Octopus 

"  What  is  it  you  want  to  see  Mr.  Derrick  about?  "  she 
inquired  hastily.  "  Is  it  about  this  plan  to  elect  a  Rail- 
road Commission?  Magnus  does  not  approve  of  it,"  she 
declared  with  energy.  "  He  told  me  so  last  night." 

Annixter  moved  about  awkwardly  where  he  sat, 
smoothing  down  with  his  hand  the  one  stiff  lock  of  yel- 
low hair  that  persistently  stood  up  from  his  crown  like  an 
Indian's  scalp-lock.  At  once  his  suspicions  were  all 
aroused.  Ah !  this  feemale  woman  was  trying  to  get  a 
hold  on  him,  trying  to  involve  him  in  a  petticoat  mess, 
trying  to  cajole  him.  Upon  the  instant,  he  became  very 
crafty;  an  excess  of  prudence  promptly  congealed  his 
natural  impulses.  In  an  actual  spasm  of  caution,  he 
scarcely  trusted  himself  to  speak,  terrified  lest  he  should 
commit  himself  to  something.  He  glanced  about  appre- 
hensively, praying  that  Magnus  might  join  them  speedily, 
relieving  the  tension. 

"  I  came  to  see  about  giving  a  dance  in  my  new  barn," 
he  answered,  scowling  into  the  depths  of  his  hat,  as 
though  reading  from  notes  he  had  concealed  there.  "  I 
wanted  to  ask  how  I  should  send  out  the  wvites.  I 
thought  of  just  putting  an  ad.  in  the  '  Mercury/  " 

But  as  he  spoke,  Presley  had  come  up  behind  An- 
nixter in  time  to  get  the  drift  of  the  conversation,  and 
now  observed: 

"  That's  nonsense,  Buck.  You're  not  giving  a  public 
ball.  You  must  send  out  invitations." 

"  Hello,  Presley,  you  there  ?  "  exclaimed  Annixter, 
turning  round.  The  two  shook  hands. 

"  Send  out  invitations  ?  "  repeated  Annixter  uneasily. 
"Why  must  I?" 

"  Because  that's  the  only  way  to  do." 

"It  is,  is  it?"  answered  Annixter,  perplexed  and 
troubled.  No  other  man  of  his  acquaintance  could  have 
so  contradicted  Annixter  without  provoking  a  quarrel 


A  Story  of  California  183 

upon  the  instant.  Why  the  young  rancher,  irascible,  ob- 
stinate, belligerent,  should  invariably  defer  to  the  poet, 
was  an  inconsistency  never  to  be  explained.  It  was  with 
great  surprise  that  Mrs.  Derrick  heard  him  continue: 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  know  what  you're  talking  about, 
Pres.  Must  have  written  wvites,  hey?" 

"  Of  course." 

"Typewritten?" 

"  Why,  what  an  ass  you  are,  Buck,"  observed  Presley 
calmly.  "  Before  you  get  through  with  it,  you  will  prob- 
ably insult  three-fourths  of  the  people  you  intend  to  in- 
vite, and  have  about  a  hundred  quarrels  on  your  hands, 
and  a  lawsuit  or  two." 

However,  before  Annixter  could  reply,  Magnus  came 
out  on  the  porch,  erect,  grave,  freshly  shaven.  Without 
realising  what  he  was  doing,  Annixter  instinctively  rose 
to  his  feet.  It  was  as  though  Magnus  wras  a  commander- 
in-chief  of  an  unseen  army,  and  he  a  subaltern.  There 
was  some  little  conversation  as  to  the  proposed  dance, 
and  then  Annixter  found  an  excuse  for  drawing  the  Gov- 
ernor aside.  Mrs.  Derrick  watched  the  two  with  eyes 
full  of  poignant  anxiety,  as  they  slowly  paced  the  length 
of  the  gravel  driveway  to  the  road  gate,  and  stood  there, 
leaning  upon  it,  talking  earnestly;  Magnus  tall,  thin- 
lipped,  impassive,  one  hand  in  the  breast  of  his  frock 
coat,  his  head  bare,  his  keen,  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  An- 
nixter's  face.  Annixter  came  at  once  to  the  main  point. 

"  I  got  a  wire  from  Osterman  this  morning,  Gover- 
nor, and,  well — we've  got  Disbrow.  That  means  that 
the  Denver,  Pueblo  and  Mojave  is  back  of  us.  There's 
half  the  fight  won,  first  off." 

"  Osterman  bribed  him,  I  suppose,"  observed  Magnus. 

Annixter  raised  a  shoulder  vexatiously. 

"  You've  got  to  pay  for  what  you  get,"  he  returned. 
"  You  don't  get  something  for  nothing,  I  guess.  Gov- 


1 84  The  Octopus 

ernor,"  he  went  on,  "  I  don't  see  how  you  can  stay  out  of 
this  business  much  longer.  You  see  how  it  will  be. 
We're  going  to  win,  and  I  don't  see  how  you  can  feel 
that  it's  right  of  you  to  let  us  do  all  the  work  and  stand 
all  the  expense.  There's  never  been  a  movement  of  any 
importance  that  went  on  around  you  that  you  weren't  the 
leader  in  it.  All  Tulare  County,  all  the  San  Joaquin,  for 
that  matter,  knows  you.  They  want  a  leader,  and  they 
are  looking  to  you.  I  know  how  you  feel  about  politics 
nowadays.  But,  Governor,  standards  have  changed 
since  your  time;  everybody  plays  the  game  now  as  we 
are  playing  it — the  most  honourable  men.  You  can't 
play  it  any  other  way,  and,  pshaw !  if  the  right  wins  out 
in  the  end,  that's  the  main  thing.  We  want  you  in  this 
thing,  and  we  want  you  bad.  You've  been  chewing  on 
this  affair  now  a  long  time.  Have  you  made  up  your 
mind  ?  Do  you  come  in  ?  I  tell  you  what,  you've  got  to 
look  at  these  things  in  a  large  way.  You've  got  to  judge 
by  results.  Well,  now,  what  do  you  think?  Do  you 
come  in?  " 

Magnus's  glance  left  Annixter's  face,  and  for  an  in- 
stant sought  the  ground.  His  frown  lowered,  but  now  it 
was  in  perplexity,  rather  than  in  anger.  His  mind  was 
troubled,  harassed  with  a  thousand  dissensions. 

But  one  of  Magnus's  strongest  instincts,  one  of  his 
keenest  desires,  was  to  be,  if  only  for  a  short  time,  the 
master.  To  control  men  had  ever  been  his  ambition; 
submission  of  any  kind,  his  greatest  horror.  His  energy 
stirred  within  him,  goaded  by  the  lash  of  his  anger,  his 
sense  of  indignity,  of  insult.  Oh  for  one  moment  to  be 
able  to  strike  back,  to  crush  his  enemy,  to  defeat  the  rail- 
road, hold  the  Corporation  in  the  grip  of  his  fist,  put 
down  S.  Behrman,  rehabilitate  himself,  regain  his  self- 
respect.  To  be  once  more  powerful,  to  command,  to 
dominate.  His  thin  lips  pressed  themselves  together, 


A  Story  of  California  185 

the  nostrils  of  his  prominent  hawk-like  nose  dilated,  his 
erect,  commanding  figure  stiffened  unconsciously.  For 
a  moment,  he  saw  himself  controlling  the  situation, 
the  foremost  figure  in  his  State,  feared,  respected, 
thousands  of  men  beneath  him,  his  ambition  at  length 
gratified;  his  career,  once  apparently  brought  to  naught, 
completed;  success  a  palpable  achievement.  What  if 
this  were  his  chance,  after  all,  come  at  last  after  all  these 
years.  His  chance !  The  instincts  of  the  old-time  gam- 
bler, the  most  redoubtable  poker  player  of  El  Dorado 
County,  stirred  at  the  word.  Chance  !  To  know  it  when 
it  came,  to  recognise  it  as  it  passed  fleet  as  a  wind-flurry, 
grip  at  it,  catch  at  it,  blind,  reckless,  staking  all  upon  the 
hazard  of  the  issue,  that  was  genius.  Was  this  his 
Chance?  All  of  a  sudden,  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was. 
But  his  honour!  His  cherished,  lifelong  integrity,  the 
unstained  purity  of  his  principles  ?  At  this  late  date,  were 
they  to  be  sacrificed?  Could  he  now  go  counter  to  all 
the  firm  built  fabric  of  his  character  ?  How,  afterward, 
could  he  bear  to  look  Harran  and  Lyman  in  the  face? 
And,  yet — and,  yet — back  swung  the  pendulum — to  ne- 
glect his  Chance  meant  failure ;  a  life  begun  in  promise, 
and  ended  in  obscurity,  perhaps  in  financial  ruin,  poverty 
even.  To  seize  it  meant  achievement,  fame,  influence, 
prestige,  possibly  great  wealth. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  to  interrupt,"  said  Mrs.  Derrick,  as 
she  came  up.  "  I  hope  Mr.  Annixter  will  excuse  me,  but 
I  want  Magnus  to  open  the  safe  for  me.  I  have  lost  the 
combination,  and  I  must  have  some  money.  Phelps  is 
going  into  town,  and  I  want  him  to  pay  some  bills  for 
me.  Can't  you  come  right  away,  Magnus?  Phelps  is 
ready  and  waiting." 

Annixter  struck  his  heel  into  the  ground  with  a  sup- 
pressed oath.  Always  these  fool  feemale  women  came 
between  him  and  his  plans,  mixing  themselves  up  in  his 


1 86  The  Octopus 

affairs.  Magnus  had  been  on  the  very  point  of  saying 
something,  perhaps  committing  himself  to  some  course 
of  action,  and,  at  precisely  the  wrong  moment,  his  wife 
had  cut  in.  The  opportunity  was  lost.  The  three  re- 
turned toward  the  ranch  house;  but  before  saying  good- 
bye, Annixter  had  secured  from  Magnus  a  promise  to  the 
effect  that,  before  coming  to  a  definite  decision  in  the 
matter  under  discussion,  he  would  talk  further  with  him. 

Presley  met  him  at  the  porch.  He  was  going  into 
town  with  Phelps,  and  proposed  to  Annixter  that  he 
should  accompany  them. 

"  I  want  to  go  over  and  see  old  Broderson,"  Annixter 
objected. 

But  Presley  informed  him  that  Broderson  had  gone 
to  Bonneville  earlier  in  the  morning.  He  had  seen  him 
go  past  in  his  buckboard.  The  three  men  set  off,  Phelps 
and  Annixter  on  horseback,  Presley  on  his  bicycle. 

When  they  had  gone,  Mrs.  Derrick  sought  out  her 
husband  in  the  office  of  the  ranch  house.  She  was  at 
her  prettiest  that  morning,  her  cheeks  flushed  with  ex- 
citement, her  innocent,  wide-open  eyes  almost  girlish. 
She  had  fastened  her  hair,  still  moist,  with  a  black  rib- 
bon tied  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and  the  soft  mass  of 
light  brown  reached  to  below  her  waist,  making  her  look 
very  young. 

"  What  was  it  he  was  saying  to  you  just  now,"  she 
exclaimed,  as  she  came  through  the  gate  in  the  green- 
painted  wire  railing  of  the  office.  "  What  was  Mr.  An- 
nixter saying?  I  know.  He  was  trying  to  get  you  to 
join  him,  trying  to  persuade  you  to  be  dishonest,  wasn't 
that  it?  Tell  me,  Magnus,  wasn't  that  it?  " 

Magnus  nodded. 

His  wife  drew  close  to  him,  putting  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  But  you  won't,  will  you?    You  won't  listen  to  him 


A  Story  of  California  187 

again;  you  won't  so  much  as  allow  him — anybody — to 
even  suppose  you  would  lend  yourself  to  bribery?  Oh, 
Magnus,  I  don't  know  what  has  come  over  you  these  last 
few  weeks.  Why,  before  this,  you  would  have  been  in- 
sulted if  any  one  thought  you  would  even  consider  any- 
thing like  dishonesty.  Magnus,  it  would  break  my  heart 
if  you  joined  Mr.  Annixter  and  Mr.  Osterman.  Why, 
you  couldn't  be  the  same  man  to  me  afterward;  you,  who 
have  kept  yourself  so  clean  till  now.  And  the  boys; 
what  would  Lyman  say,  and  Harran,  and  every  one  who 
knows  you  and  respects  you,  if  you  lowered  yourself  to 
be  just  a  political  adventurer!  " 

For  a  moment,  Derrick  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
avoiding  her  gaze.  At  length,  he  said,  drawing  a  deep 
breath: 

"  I  am  troubled,  Annie.  These  are  the  evil  days.  I 
have  much  upon  my  mind." 

"  Evil  days  or  not,"  she  insisted,  "  promise  me  this 
one  thing,  that  you  will  not  join  Mr.  Annixter's  scheme." 

She  had  taken  his  hand  in  both  of  hers  and  was  looking 
into  his  face,  her  pretty  eyes  full  of  pleading. 

"Promise  me,"  she  repeated;  "give  me  your  word. 
Whatever  happens,  let  me  always  be  able  to  be  proud  of 
you,  as  I  always  have  been.  Give  me  your  word.  I 
know  you  never  seriously  thought  of  joining  Mr.  An- 
nixter, but  I  am  so  nervous  and  frightened  sometimes. 
Just  to  relieve  my  mind,  Magnus,  give  me  your  word." 

"  Why — you  are  right,"  he  answered.  "  No,  I  never 
thought  seriously  of  it.  Only  for  a  moment,  I  was  am- 
bitious to  be — I  don't  know  what — what  I  had  hoped  to 
be  once — well,  that  is  over  now.  Annie,  your  husband  is 
a  disappointed  man." 

"  Give  me  your  word,"  she  insisted.  "  We  can  talk 
about  other  things  afterward." 

Again  Magnus  wavered,  about  to  yield  to  his  better 


1 88  The  Octopus 

instincts  and  to  the  entreaties  of  his  wife.  He  began  to 
see  how  perilously  far  he  had  gone  in  this  business.  He 
was  drifting  closer  to  it  every  hour.  Already  he  was 
entangled,  already  his  foot  was  caught  in  the  mesh  that 
was  being  spun.  Sharply  he  recoiled.  Again  all  his 
instincts  of  honesty  revolted.  No,  whatever  happened, 
he  would  preserve  his  integrity.  His  wife  was  right. 
Always  she  had  influenced  his  better  side.  At  that  mo- 
ment, Magnus's  repugnance  of  the  proposed  political 
campaign  was  at  its  pitch  of  intensity.  He  wondered 
how  he  had  ever  allowed  himself  to  so  much  as  entertain 
the  idea  of  joining  with  the  others.  Now,  he  would 
wrench  free,  would,  in  a  single  instant  of  power,  clear 
himself  of  all  compromising  relations.  He  turned  to  his 
wife.  Upon  his  lips  trembled  the  promise  she  implored. 
But  suddenly  there  came  to  his  mind  the  recollection  of 
his  new-made  pledge  to  Annixter.  He  had  given  his 
word  that  before  arriving  at  a  decision  he  would  have  a 
last  interview  with  him.  To  Magnus,  his  given  word 
was  sacred.  Though  now  he  wanted  to,  he  could  not  as 
yet  draw  back,  could  not  promise  his  wife  that  he  would 
decide  to  do  right.  The  matter  must  be  delayed  a  few 
days  longer. 

Lamely,  he  explained  this  to  her.  Annie  Derrick 
made  but  little  response  when  he  had  done.  She  kissed 
his  forehead  and  went  out  of  the  room,  uneasy,  de- 
pressed, her  mind  thronging  with  vague  fears,  leaving 
Magnus  before  his  office  desk,  his  head  in  his  hands, 
thoughtful,  gloomy,  assaulted  by  forebodings. 

Meanwhile,  Annixter,  Phelps,  and  Presley  continued 
on  their  way  toward  Bonneville.  In  a  short  time  they 
had  turned  into  the  County  Road  by  the  great  watering- 
tank,  and  proceeded  onward  in  the  shade  of  the  inter- 
minable line  of  poplar  trees,  the  wind-break  that 
stretched  along  the  roadside  bordering  the  Broderson 


A  Story  of  California  189 

ranch.  But  as  they  drew  near  to  Caraher's  saloon  and 
grocery,  about  half  a  mile  outside  of  Bonneville,  they 
recognised  Harran's  horse  tied  to  the  railing  in  front  of 
it.  Annixter  left  the  others  and  went  in  to  see  Harran. 

"  Harran,"  he  said,  when  the  two  had  sat  down  on 
either  side  of  one  of  the  small  tables,  "  you've  got  to 
make  up  your  mind  one  way  or  another  pretty  soon. 
What  are  you  going  to  do?  Are  you  going  to  stand  by 
and  see  the  rest  of  the  Committee  spending  money  by 
the  bucketful  in  this  thing  and  keep  your  hands  in  your 
pockets?  If  we  win,  you'll  benefit  just  as  much  as  the 
rest  of  us.  I  suppose  you've  got  some  money  of  your 
own — you  have,  haven't  you?  You  are  your  father's 
manager,  aren't  you?" 

Disconcerted  at  Annixter's  directness,  Harran  stam- 
mered an  affirmative,  adding: 

"  It's  hard  to  know  just  what  to  do.  It's  a  mean  posi- 
tion for  me,  Buck.  I  want  to  help  you  others,  but  I  do 
want  to  play  fair.  I  don't  know  how  to  play  any  other 
way.  I  should  like  to  have  a  line  from  the  Governor  as 
to  how  to  act,  but  there's  no  getting  a  word  out  of  him 
these  days.  He  seems  to  want  to  let  me  decide  for 
myself." 

"  Well,  look  here,"  put  in  Annixter.  "  Suppose  you 
keep  out  of  the  thing  till  it's  all  over,  and  then  share  and 
share  alike  with  the  Committee  on  campaign  expenses." 

Harran  fell  thoughtful,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  frown- 
ing moodily  at  the  toe  of  his  boot.  There  was  a  silence. 
Then: 

"  I  don't  like  to  go  it  blind,"  he  hazarded.  "  I'm  sort 
ot  sharing  the  responsibility  of  what  you  do,  then.  I'm 
a  silent  partner.  And,  then — I  don't  want  to  have  any 
difficulties  with  the  Governor.  We've  always  got  along 
well  together.  He  wouldn't  like  it,  you  know,  if  I  did 
anything  like  that." 


190  The  Octopus 

"  Say,"  exclaimed  Annixter  abruptly,  "  if  the  Gover- 
nor says  he  will  keep  his  hands  off,  and  that  you  can  do 
as  you  please,  will  you  come  in?  For  God's  sake,  let  us 
ranchers  act  together  for  once.  Let's  stand  in  with  each 
other  in  one  fight." 

Without  knowing  it,  Annixter  had  touched  the  right 
spring. 

"  I  don't  know  but  what  you're  right,"  Harran  mur- 
mured vaguely.  His  sense  of  discouragement,  that  feel- 
ing of  what's-the-use,  was  never  more  oppressive.  All 
fair  means  had  been  tried.  The  wheat  grower  was  at 
last  with  his  back  to  the  wall.  If  he  chose  his  own  means 
of  fighting,  the  responsibility  must  rest  upon  his  enemies, 
not  on  himself. 

"  It's  the  only  way  to  accomplish  anything,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  standing  in  with  each  other  .  .  ,  well, 
>  .  .  go  ahead  and  see  what  you  can  do.  If  the 
Governor  is  willing,  I'll  come  in  for  my  share  of  the 
campaign  fund." 

"  That's  some  sense,"  exclaimed  Annixter,  shaking 
him  by  the  hand.  "  Half  the  fight  is  over  already.  We've 
got  Disbrow  you  know;  and  the  next  thing  is  to  get  hold 
of  some  of  those  rotten  San  Francisco  bosses.  Oster- 
man  will— — "  But  Harran  interrupted  him,  making  a 
quick  gesture  with  his  hand. 

"  Don't  tell  me  about  it,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  want  to 
know  what  you  and  Osterman  are  going  to  do.  If  I  did, 
I  shouldn't  come  in." 

Yet,  for  all  this,  before  they  said  good-bye  Annixter 
had  obtained  Harran's  promise  that  he  would  attend  the 
next  meeting  of  the  Committee,  when  Osterman  should 
return  from  Los  Angeles  and  make  his  report.  Harran 
went  on  toward  Los  Muertos.  Annixter  mounted  and 
rode  into  Bonneville. 

Bonneville  was  very  lively  at  all  times.     It  was  a  little 


A  Story  of  California  191 

city  of  some  twenty  or  thirty  thousand  inhabitants, 
where,  as  yet,  the  city  hall,  the  high  school  building,  and 
the  opera  house  were  objects  of  civic  pride.  It  was  well 
governed,  beautifully  clean,  full  of  the  energy  and  strenu- 
ous young  life  of  a  new  city.  An  air  of  the  briskest  ac- 
tivity pervaded  its  streets  and  sidewalks.  The  business 
portion  of  the  town,  centring  about  Main  Street,  was 
always  crowded.  Annixter,  arriving  at  the  Post  Office, 
found  himself  involved  in  a  scene  of  swiftly  shifting  sights 
and  sounds.  Saddle  horses,  farm  wagons — the  inevit- 
able Studebakers — buggies  grey  with  the  dust  of  country 
roads,  buckboards  with  squashes  and  grocery  packages 
stowed  under  the  seat,  two-wheeled  sulkies  and  training 
carts,  \vere  hitched  to  the  gnawed  railings  and  zinc- 
sheathed  telegraph  poles  along  the  curb.  Here  and 
there,  on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  were  bicycles,  wedged 
into  bicycle  racks  painted  with  cigar  advertisements. 
Upon  the  asphalt  sidewalk  itself,  soft  and  sticky  with  the 
morning's  heat,  was  a  continuous  movement.  Men  with 
large  stomachs,  wearing  linen  coats  but  no  vests,  la- 
boured ponderously  up  and  down.  Girls  in  lawn  skirts, 
shirt  waists,  and  garden  hats,  went  to  and  fro,  invariably 
in  couples,  coming  in  and  out  of  the  drug  store,  the 
grocery  store,  and  haberdasher's,  or  lingering  in  front 
of  the  Post  Office,  which  was  on  a  corner  under  the 
I.O.O.F.  hall.  Young  men,  in  shirt  sleeves,  with  brown, 
wicker  cuff-protectors  over  their  forearms,  and  pencils 
behind  their  ears,  bustled  in  front  of  the  grocery  store, 
anxious  and  preoccupied.  A  very  old  man,  a  Mexican, 
in  ragged  white  trousers  and  bare  feet,  sat  on  a  horse- 
block in  front  of  the  barber  shop,  holding  a  horse  by  a 
rope  around  its  neck.  A  Chinaman  went  by,  teetering 
under  the  weight  of  his  market  baskets  slung  on  a  pole 
across  his  shoulders.  In  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
hotel,  the  Yosemite  House,  travelling  salesmen,  drum- 


1 92  The  Octopus 

mers  for  jewelry  firms  of  San  Francisco,  commercial 
agents,  insurance  men,  well-dressed,  metropolitan,  deb- 
onair, stood  about  cracking  jokes,  or  hurried  in  and 
out  of  the  flapping  white  doors  of  the  Yosemite  bar- 
room. The  Yosemite  'bus  and  City  'bus  passed  up  the 
street,  on  the  way  from  the  morning  train,  each  with  its 
two  or  three  passengers.  A  very  narrow  wagon,  be- 
longing to  the  Cole  &  Colemore  Harvester  Works,  went 
by,  loaded  with  long  strips  of  iron  that  made  a  horrible 
din  as  they  jarred  over  the  unevenness  of  the  pavement. 
The  electric  car  line,  the  city's  boast,  did  a  brisk  business, 
its  cars  whirring  from  end  to  end  of  the  street,  with  a 
jangling  of  bells  and  a  moaning  plaint  of  gearing.  On 
the  stone  bulkheads  of  the  grass  plat  around  the  new 
City  Hall,  the  usual  loafers  sat,  chewing  tobacco,  swap- 
ping stories.  In  the  park  were  the  inevitable  array  of 
nursemaids,  skylarking  couples,  and  ragged  little  boys. 
A  single  policeman,  in  grey  coat  and  helmet,  friend  and 
acquaintance  of  every  man  and  woman  in  the  town,  stood 
by  the  park  entrance,  leaning  an  elbow  on  the  fence  post, 
twirling  his  club. 

But  in  the  centre  of  the  best  business  block  of  the 
street  was  a  three-story  building  of  rough  brown  stone, 
set  off  with  plate  glass  windows  and  gold-lettered  signs. 
One  of  these  latter  read,  "Pacific  and  Southwestern  Rail- 
road, Freight  and  Passenger  Office,"  while  another, 
much  smaller,  beneath  the  windows  of  the  second  story, 
bore  the  inscription,  "  P.  and  S.  W.  Land  Office." 

Annixter  hitched  his  horse  to  the  iron  post  in  front  of 
this  building,  and  tramped  up  to  the  second  floor,  letting 
himself  into  an  office  where  a  couple  of  clerks  and  book- 
keepers sat  at  work  behind  a  high  wire  screen.  One  of 
these  latter  recognised  him  and  came  forward. 

"  Hello,"  said  Annixter  abruptly,  scowling  the  while. 
"Is  your  boss  in?  Is  Ruggles  in?" 


A  Story  of  California  193 

The  bookkeeper  led  Annixter  to  the  private  office  in 
an  adjoining  room,  ushering  him  through  a  door,  on 
the  frosted  glass  of  which  was  painted  the  name,  "  Cyrus 
Blakelee  Ruggles."  Inside,  a  man  in  a  frock  coat,  shoe- 
string necktie,  and  Stetson  hat,  sat  writing  at  a  roller- 
top  desk.  Over  this  desk  was  a  vast  map  of  the  railroad 
holdings  in  the  country  about  Bonneville  and  Guadala- 
jara, the  alternate  sections  belonging  to  the  Corporation 
accurately  plotted. 

Ruggles  was  cordial  in  his  welcome  of  Annixter.  He 
had  a  way  of  fiddling  with  his  pencil  continually  while  he 
talked,  scribbling  vague  lines  and  fragments  of  words 
and  names  on  stray  bits  of  paper,  and  no  sooner  had  An- 
nixter sat  down  than  he  had  begun  to  write,  in  full-bellied 
script,  Ann  Ann  all  over  his  blotting  pad. 

"  I  want  to  see  about  those  lands  of  mine — I  mean  of 
yours — of  the  railroad's,"  Annixter  commenced  at  once. 
"  I  want  to  know  when  I  can  buy.  I'm  sick  of  fooling 
along  like  this." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Annixter/'  observed  Ruggles,  writing 
a  great  L  before  the  Ann,  and  finishing  it  off  with  a 
flourishing  d.  "  The  lands  " — he  crossed  out  one  of  the 
n's  and  noted  the  effect  with  a  hasty  glance — "  the  lands 
are  practically  yours.  You  have  an  option  on  them  in- 
definitely, and,  as  it  is,  you  don't  have  to  pay  the  taxes." 

"  Rot  your  option !  I  want  to  own  them,"  Annixter 
declared.  "  What  have  you  people  got  to  gain  by  putting 
off  selling  them  to  us.  Here  this  thing  has  dragged 
along  for  over  eight  years.  When  I  came  in  on  Quien 
Sabe,  the  understanding  was  that  the  lands — your  alter- 
nate sections — were  to  be  conveyed  to  me  within  a  few 
months." 

"  The  land  had  not  been  patented  to  us  then,"  an- 
swered Ruggles. 

"  Well,  it  has  been  now,  I  guess,"  retorted  Annixter. 


194  The  Octopus 

"  I'm  sure  I  couldn't  tell  you,  Mr.  Annixter." 

Annixter  crossed  his  legs  weariedly. 

"  Oh,  what's  the  good  of  lying,  Ruggles?  You  know 
better  than  to  talk  that  way  to  me." 

Ruggles's  face  flushed  on  the  instant,  but  he  checked 
his  answer  and  laughed  instead. 

"  Oh,  if  you  know  so  much  about  it — "  he  observed. 

"  Well,  when  are  you  going  to  sell  to  me?  " 

"  I'm  only  acting  for  the  General  Office,  Mr.  An- 
nixter," returned  Ruggles.  "  Whenever  the  Directors 
are  ready  to  take  that  matter  up,  I'll  be  only  too  glad 
to  put  it  through  for  you." 

"  As  if  you  didn't  know.  Look  here,  you're  not  talk- 
ing to  old  Broderson.  Wake  up,  Ruggles.  What's  all 
this  talk  in  Genslinger's  rag  about  the  grading  of  the 
value  of  our  lands  this  winter  and  an  advance  in  the 
price?" 

Ruggles  spread  out  his  hands  with  a  deprecatory 
gesture. 

"  I  don't  own  the  '  Mercury/  "  he  said. 

"  Well,  your  company  does." 

41  If  it  does,  I  don't  know  anything  about  it." 

"  Oh,  rot!  As  if  you  and  Genslinger  and  S.  Behrman 
didn't  run  the  whole  show  down  here.  Come  on,  letV 
have  it,  Ruggles.  What  does  S.  Behrman  pay  Gen- 
slinger for  inserting  that  three-inch  ad.  of  the  P.  and 
S.  W.  in  his  paper  ?  Ten  thousand  a  year,  hey  ?  " 

"  Oh,  why  not  a  hundred  thousand  and  be  done  with 
it?"  returned  the  other,  willing  to  take  it  as  a  joke. 

Instead  of  replying,  Annixter  drew  his  check-book 
from  his  inside  pocket. 

"  Let  me  take  that  fountain  pen  of  yours,"  he  said. 
Holding  the  book  on  his  knee  he  wrote  out  a  check,  tore 
it  carefully  from  the  stub,  and  laid  it  on  the  desk  in 
front  of  Ruggles. 


A  Story  of  California  195 

"What's  this?"  asked  Ruggles. 

"  Three-fourths  payment  for  the  sections  of  railroad 
land  included  in  my  ranch,  based  on  a  valuation  of  two 
dollars  and  a  half  per  acre.  You  can  have  the  balance 
in  sixty-day  notes." 

Ruggles  shook  his  head,  drawing  hastily  back  from 
the  check  as  though  it  carried  contamination. 

"  I  can't  touch  it,"  he  declared.  "  I've  no  authority  to 
sell  to  you  yet." 

"  I  don't  understand  you  people,"  exclaimed  Annix- 
ter.  "  I  offered  to  buy  of  you  the  same  way  four  years 
ago  and  you  sang  the  same  song.  Why,  it  isn't  business. 
You  lose  the  interest  on  your  money.  Seven  per  cent., 
of  that  capital  for  four  years — you  can  figure  it  out. 
It's  big  money." 

"  Well,  then,  I  don't  see  why  you're  so  keen  on  parting 
with  it.  You  can  get  seven  per  cent,  the  same  as  us." 

"  I  want  to  own  my  own  land,"  returned  Annixter. 
"  I  want  to  feel  that  every  lump  of  dirt  inside  my  fence 
is  my  personal  property.  Why,  the  very  house  I  live 
in  now — the  ranch  house — stands  on  railroad  ground.'* 

"  But,  you've  an  option " 

"  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  your  cursed  option.  I  want 
ownership;  and  it's  the  same  with  Magnus  Derrick  and 
old  Broderson  and  Osterman  and  all  the  ranchers  of  the 
county.  We  want  to  own  our  land,  want  to  feel  we  can 
do  as  we  blame  please  with  it.  Suppose  I  should  want 
to  sell  Quien  Sabe.  I  can't  sell  it  as  a  whole  till  I've 
bought  of  you.  I  can't  give  anybody  a  clear  title.  The 
land  has  doubled  in  value  ten  times  over  again  since  I 
came  in  on  it  and  improved  it.  It's  worth  easily  twenty 
an  acre  now.  But  I  can't  take  advantage  of  that  rise 
in  value  so  long  as  you  won't  sell,  so  long  as  I  don't  own 
it.  You're  blocking  me." 

"  But,  according  to  you,  the  railroad  can't  take  ad- 


196  The  Octopus 

vantage  of  the  rise  in  any  case.  According  to  you,  you 
can  sell  for  twenty  dollars,  but  we  can  only  get  two  and 
a  half." 

"  Who  made  it  worth  twenty?  "  cried  Annixter.  "  I've 
improved  it  up  to  that  figure.  Genslinger  seems  to  have 
that  idea  in  his  nut,  too.  Do  you  people  think  you  can 
hold  that  land,  untaxed,  for  speculative  purposes  until 
it  goes  up  to  thirty  dollars  and  then  sell  out  to  some  one 
else — sell  it  over  our  heads?  You  and  Genslinger 
weren't  in  office  when  those  contracts  were  drawn.  You 
ask  your  boss,  you  ask  S.  Behrman,  he  knows.  The 
General  Office  is  pledged  to  sell  to  us  in  preference  to 
any  one  else,  for  two  and  a  half." 

"  Well,"  observed  Ruggles  decidedly,  tapping  the  end 
of  his  pencil  on  his  desk  and  leaning  forward  to  empha- 
sise his  words,  "  we're  not  selling  now.  That's  said  and 
signed,  Mr.  Annixter." 

"Why  not?  Come,  spit  it  out.  What's  the  bunco 
game  this  time?" 

"  Because  we're  not  ready.    Here's  your  check." 

"You  won't  take  it?" 

"  No." 

"  I'll  make  it  a  cash  payment,  money  down — the  whole 
of  it — payable  to  Cyrus  Blakelee  Ruggles,  for  the  P.  and 
S.  W." 

"  No." 

"  Third  and  last  time." 

"  No." 

"Oh,  go  to  the  devil!" 

"  I  don't  like  your  tone,  Mr.  Annixter,"  returned  Rug- 
gles, flushing  angrily. 

"  I  don't  give  a  curse  whether  you  like  it  or  not,"  re- 
torted Annixter,  rising  and  thrusting  the  check  into  his 
pocket,  "  but  never  you  mind,  Mr.  Ruggles,  you  and 
S.  Behrman  and  Genslinger  and  Shelgrim  and  the  whole 


A  Story  of  California  197 

gang  of  thieves  of  you — you'll  wake  this  State  of  Cali- 
fornia up  some  of  these  days  by  going  just  one  little  bit 
too  far,  and  there'll  be  an  election  of  Railroad  Commis- 
sioners of,  by,  and  for  the  people,  that'll  get  a  twist  of 
you,  my  bunco-steering  friend — you  and  your  backers 
and  cappers  and  swindlers  and  thimble-riggers,  and 
smash  you,  lock,  stock,  and  barrel.  That's  my  tip  to  you 
and  be  damned  to  you,  Mr.  Cyrus  Blackleg  Ruggles." 

Annixter  stormed  out  of  the  room,  slamming  the  door 
behind  him,  and  Ruggles,  trembling  with  anger,  turned 
to  his  desk  and  to  the  blotting  pad  written  all  over  with 
the  words  Lands,  Twenty  dollars,  Tivo  and  a  half,  Option, 
and,  over  and  over  again,  with  great  swelling  curves  and 
flourishes,  Railroad,  Railroad,  Railroad. 

But  as  Annixter  passed  into  the  outside  office,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  wire  partition  he  noted  the  figure  of 
a  man  at  the  counter  in  conversation  with  one  of  the 
clerks.  There  was  something  familiar  to  Annixter's  eye 
about  the  man's  heavy  built  frame,  his  great  shoulders 
and  massive  back,  and  as  he  spoke  to  the  clerk  in  a  tre- 
mendous, rumbling  voice,  Annixter  promptly  recognised 
Dyke. 

There  was  a  meeting.  Annixter  liked  Dyke,  as  did 
every  one  else  in  and  about  Bonneville.  He  paused  now 
to  shake  hands  with  the  discharged  engineer  and  to  ask 
about  his  little  daughter,  Sidney,  to  whom  he  knew 
Dyke  was  devotedly  attached. 

"  Smartest  little  tad  in  Tulare  County,"  asserted  Dyke. 
"  She's  getting  prettier  every  day,  Mr.  Annixter.  There's 
a  little  tad  that  was  just  born  to  be  a  lady.  Can  recite 
the  whole  of  '  Snow  Bound  '  without  ever  stopping.  You 
don't  believe  that,  maybe,  hey?  Well,  it's  true.  She'll 
be  just  old  enough  to  enter  the  Seminary  up  at  Marys- 
ville  next  winter,  and  if  my  hop  business  pays  two  per 
cent,  on  the  investment,  there's  where  she's  going  to  go." 


198  The  Octopus 

"  How's  it  coming  on?  "  inquired  Annixter. 

"The  hop  ranch?  Prime.  I've  about  got  the  land 
in  shape,  and  I've  engaged  a  foreman  who  knows  all 
about  hops.  I've  been  in  luck.  Everybody  will  go  into 
the  business  next  year  when  they  see  hops  go  to  a  dollar, 
and  they'll  overstock  the  market  and  bust  the  price. 
But  I'm  going  to  get  the  cream  of  it  now.  I  say  two  per 
cent.  Why,  Lord  love  you,  it  will  pay  a  good  deal  more 
than  that.  It's  got  to.  It's  cost  more  than  I- figured 
to  start  the  thing,  so,  perhaps,  I  may  have  to  borrow 
somewheres;  but  then  on  such  a  sure  game  as  this — and 
I  do  want  to  make  something  out  of  that  little  tad  of 
mine." 

"Through  here?"  inquired  Annixter,  making  ready 
to  move  off. 

"  In  just  a  minute,"  answered  Dyke.  "  Wait  for  me 
and  I'll  walk  down  the  street  with  you." 

Annixter  grumbled  that  he  was  in  a  hurry,  but  waited, 
nevertheless,  while  Dyke  again  approached  the  clerk. 

"  I  shall  want  some  empty  cars  of  you  people  this 
fall,"  he  explained.  "  I'm  a  hop-raiser  now,  and  I  just 
want  to  make  sure  what  your  rates  on  hops  are.  I've 
been  told,  but  I  want  to  make  sure.  Savvy?  " 

There  was  a  long  delay  while  the  clerk  consulted  the 
tariff  schedules,  and  Annixter  fretted  impatiently.  Dyke, 
growing  uneasy,  leaned  heavily  on  his  elbows,  watching 
the  clerk  anxiously.  If  the  tariff  was  exorbitant,  he  saw 
his  plans  brought  to  naught,  his  money  jeopardised,  the 
little  tad,  Sidney,  deprived  of  her  education.  He  began 
to  blame  himself  that  he  had  not  long  before  determined 
definitely  what  the  railroad  would  charge  for  moving  his 
hops.  He  told  himself  he  was  not  much  of  a  business 
man;  that  he  managed  carelessly. 

"  Two  cents,"  suddenly  announced  the  clerk  with  a 
certain  surly  indifference. 


A  Story  of  California  199 

"  Two  cents  a  pound?  " 

"  Yes,  two  cents  a  pound — that's  in  car-load  lots,  of 
course.  I  won't  give  you  that  rate  on  smaller  consign- 
ments." 

"  Yes,  car-load  lots,  of  course  .  .  .  two  cents. 
Well,  all  right." 

He  turned  away  with  a  great  sigh  of  relief. 

"  He  sure  did  have  me  scared  for  a  minute,"  he  said 
to  Annixter,  as  the  two  went  down  to  the  street,  "fiddling 
and  fussing  so  long.  Two  cents  is  all  right,  though. 
Seems  fair  to  me.  That  fiddling  of  his  was  all  put 
on.  I  know  'em,  these  railroad  heelers.  He  knew  I 
was  a  discharged  employee  first  off,  and  he  played  the 
game  just  to  make  me  seem  small  because  I  had  to  ask 
favours  of  him.  I  don't  suppose  the  General  Office  tips 
its  slavees  off  to  act  like  swine,  but  there's  the  feeling 
through  the  whole  herd  of  them.  '  Ye  got  to  come  to 
us.  We  let  ye  live  only  so  long  as  we  choose,  and  what 
are  ye  going  to  do  about  it?  If  ye  don't  like  it,  git 
out.' " 

Annixter  and  the  engineer  descended  to  the  street  and 
had  a  drink  at  the  Yosemite  bar,  and  Annixter  went  into 
the  General  Store  while  Dyke  bought  a  little  pair  of  red 
slippers  for  Sidney.  Before  the  salesman  had  wrapped 
them  up,  Dyke  slipped  a  dime  into  the  toe  of  each  with 
a  wink  at  Annixter. 

"  Let  the  little  tad  find  'em  there,"  he  said  behind  his 
hand  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "  That'll  be  one  on  Sid." 

"  Where  to  now  ?  "  demanded  Annixter  as  they  re- 
gained the  street.  "  I'm  going  down  to  the  Post  Office 
and  then  pull  out  for  the  ranch.  Going  my  way?  " 

Dyke  hesitated  in  some  confusion,  tugging  at  the  ends 
of  his  fine  blonde  beard. 

"  No,  no.  I  guess  I'll  leave  you  here.  I've  got — got 
other  things  to  do  up  the  street.  So  long." 


2oo  The  Octopus 

The  two  separated,  and  Annixter  hurried  through  the 
crowd  to  the  Post  Office,  but  the  mail  that  had  come  in 
on  that  morning's  train  was  unusually  heavy.  It  was 
nearly  half  an  hour  before  it  was  distributed.  Naturally 
enough,  Annixter  placed  all  the  blame  of  the  delay  upon 
the  railroad,  and  delivered  himself  of  some  pointed  re- 
marks in  the  midst  of  the  waiting  crowd.  He  was  irri- 
tated to  the  last  degree  when  he  finally  emerged  upon 
the  sidewalk  again,  cramming  his  mail  into  his  pockets. 
One  cause  of  his  bad  temper  was  the  fact  that  in  the 
bundle  of  Quien  Sabe  letters  was  one  to  Hilma  Tree 
in  a  man's  handwriting. 

"  Huh!  "  Annixter  had  growled  to  himself,  "  that  pip 
Delaney.  Seems  now  that  I'm  to  act  as  go-between  for 
?em.  Well,  maybe  that  feemale  girl  gets  this  letter,  and 
then,  again,  maybe  she  don't." 

But  suddenly  his  attention  was  diverted.  Directly 
opposite  the  Post  Office,  upon  the  corner  of  the  street, 
stood  quite  the  best  business  building  of  which  Bonne- 
ville  could  boast.  It  was  built  of  Colusa  granite,  very 
solid,  ornate,  imposing.  Upon  the  heavy  plate  of  the 
window  of  its  main  floor,  in  gold  and  red  letters,  one  read 
the  words :  "  Loan  and  Savings  Bank  of  Tulare  County." 
It  was  of  this  bank  that  S.  Behrman  was  president.  At 
the  street  entrance  of  the  building  was  a  curved  sign  of 
polished  brass,  fixed  upon  the  angle  of  the  masonry;  this 
sign  bore  the  name,  "  S.  Behrman,"  and  under  it  in 
smaller  letters  were  the  words,  "  Real  Estate,  Mort- 
gages." 

As  Annixter's  glance  fell  upon  this  building,  he  was 
surprised  to  see  Dyke  standing  upon  the  curb  in  front 
of  it,  apparently  reading  from  a  newspaper  that  he  held 
in  his  hand.  But  Annixter  promptly  discovered  that  he 
was  not  reading  at  all.  From  time  to  time  the  former 
engineer  shot  a  swift  glance  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye 


A  Story  of  California  201 

up  and  down  the  street.  Annixter  jumped  at  a  conclu- 
sion. An  idea  suddenly  occurred  to  him.  Dyke  was 
watching  to  see  if  he  was  observed — was  waiting  an 
opportunity  when  no  one  who  knew  him  should  be  in 
sight.  Annixter  stepped  back  a  little,  getting  a  tele- 
graph pole  somewhat  between  him  and  the  other.  Very 
interested,  he  watched  what  was  going  on.  Pretty  soon 
Dyke  thrust  the  paper  into  his  pocket  and  sauntered 
slowly  to  the  windows  of  a  stationery  store,  next  the 
street  entrance  of  S.  Behrman's  offices.  For  a  few 
seconds  he  stood  there,  his  back  turned,  seemingly  ab- 
sorbed in  the  display,  but  eyeing  the  street  narrowly 
nevertheless;  then  he  turned  around,  gave  a  last  look 
about  and  stepped  swiftly  into  the  doorway  by  the  great 
brass  sign.  He  disappeared.  Annixter  came  from  be- 
hind the  telegraph  pole  with  a  flush  of  actual  shame  upon 
his  face.  There  had  been  something  so  slinking,  so 
mean,  in  the  movements  and  manner  of  this  great,  burly 
honest  fellow  of  an  engineer,  that  he  could  not  help  but 
feel  ashamed  for  him.  Circumstances  wrere  such  that 
a  simple  business  transaction  was  to  Dyke  almost  cul- 
pable, a  degradation,  a  thing  to  be  concealed. 

"  Borrowing  money  of  S.  Behrman,"  commented  An- 
nixter, "  mortgaging  your  little  homestead  to  the  rail- 
road, putting  your  neck  in  the  halter.  Poor  fool!  The 
pity  of  it.  Good  Lord,  your  hops  must  pay  you  big,  now, 
old  man." 

Annixter  lunched  at  the  Yosemite  Hotel,  and  then 
later  on,  toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  rode  out 
of  the  town  at  a  canter  by  the  way  of  the  Upper  Road 
that  paralleled  the  railroad  tracks  and  that  ran  diamet- 
rically straight  between  Bonneville  and  Guadalajara. 
About  half-way  between  the  two  places  he  overtook 
Father  Sarria  trudging  back  to  San  Juan,  his  long  cas- 
sock powdered  with  dust.  He  had  a  wicker  crate  in  one 


2O2  The  Octopus 

hand,  and  in  the  other,  in  a  small  square  valise,  the 
materials  for  the  Holy  Sacrament.  Since  early  morn- 
ing the  priest  had  covered  nearly  fifteen  miles  on  foot, 
in  order  to  administer  Extreme  Unction  to  a  moribund 
good-for-nothing,  a  greaser,  half  Indian,  half  Portu- 
guese, who  lived  in  a  remote  corner  of  Osterman's  stock 
range,  at  the  head  of  a  canon  there.  But  he  had  re- 
turned by  way  of  Bonneville  to  get  a  crate  that  had  come 
for  him  from  San  Diego.  He  had  been  notified  of  its 
arrival  the  day  before. 

Annixter  pulled  up  and  passed  the  time  of  day  with  the 
priest. 

"  I  don't  often  get  up  your  way,"  he  said,  slowing  down 
his  horse  to  accommodate  Sarria's  deliberate  plodding. 
Sarria  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  smooth,  shiny 
face. 

"  You?  Well,  with  you  it- is  different,"  he  answered. 
"  But  there  are  a  great  many  Catholics  in  the  county — 
some  on  your  ranch.  And  so  few  come  to  the  Mission. 
At  High  Mass  on  Sundays,  there  are  a  few — Mexicans 
and  Spaniards  from  Guadalajara  mostly;  but  weekdays, 
for  matins,  vespers,  and  the  like,  I  often  say  the  offices  to 
an  empty  church — '  the  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilder- 
ness.' You  Americans  are  not  good  churchmen.  Sun- 
days you  sleep — you  read  the  newspapers." 

"Well,  there's  Vanamee,"  observed  Annixter.  "I 
suppose  he's  there  early  and  late." 

Sarria  made  a  sharp  movemen^.  of  interest. 

"  Ah,  Vanamee — a  strange  lad;  a  wonderful  character, 
for  all  that.  If  there  were  only  more  like  him.  I  am 
troubled  about  him.  You  know  I  am  a  very  owl  at 
night.  I  come  and  go  about  the  Mission  at  all  hours. 
Within  the  week,  three  times  I  have  seen  Vanamee  in 
the  little  garden  by  the  Mission,  and  at  the  dead  of  night. 
He  had  come  without  asking  for  me.  He  did  not  see 


A  Story  of  California  203 

me.  It  was  strange.  Once,  when  I  had  got  up  at  dawn 
to  ring  for  early  matins,  I  saw  him  stealing  away  out  of 
the  garden.  He  must  have  been  there  all  the  night.  He 
is  acting  queerly.  He  is  pale;  his  cheeks  are  more 
sunken  than  ever.  There  is  something  wrong  with  him. 
I  can't  make  it  out.  It  is  a  mystery.  Suppose  you  ask 
him?" 

"  Not  I.  I've  enough  to  bother  myself  about.  Van- 
amee  is  crazy  in  the  head.  Some  morning  he  will  turn 
up  missing  again,  and  drop  out  of  sight  for  another 
three  yearc.  Best  let  him  alone,  Sarria.  He's  a  crank. 
How  is  that  greaser  of  yours  up  on  Osterman's  stock 
range?" 

"  Ah,  the  poor  fellow — the  poor  fellow,"  returned  the 
other,  the  tears  coming  to  his  eyes.  "  He  died  this 
morning — as  you  might  say,  in  my  arms,  painfully,  but 
in  the  faith,  in  the  faith.  A  good  fellow." 

"  A  lazy,  cattle-stealing,  knife-in-his-boot  Dago." 

"  You  misjudge  him.  A  really  good  fellow  on  better 
acquaintance." 

Annixter  grunted  scornfully.  Sarria's  kindness  and 
good-will  toward  the  most  outrageous  reprobates  of 
the  ranches  was  proverbial.  He  practically  supported 
some  half-dozen  families  that  lived  in  forgotten  cabins, 
lost  and  all  but  inaccessible,  in  the  far  corners  of  stock 
range  and  canon.  This  particular  greaser  was  the  lazi- 
est, the  dirtiest,  the  most  worthless  of  the  lot.  But  in 
Sarria's  mind,  the  lout  was  an  object  of  affection,  sin- 
cere, unquestioning.  Thrice  a  week  the  priest,  with  a 
basket  of  provisions — cold  ham,  a  bottle  of  wine,  olives, 
loaves  of  bread,  even  a  chicken  or  two — toiled  over  the 
interminable  stretch  of  country  between  the  Mission 
and  his  cabin.  Of  late,  during  the  rascal's  sickness, 
these  visits  had  been  almost  daily.  Hardly  once  did 
the  priest  leave  the  bedside  that  he  did  not  slip  a  half- 


204  The  Octopus 

dollar  into  the  palm  of  his  wife  or  oldest  daughter.  And 
this  was  but  one  case  out  of  many. 

His  kindliness  toward  animals  was  the  same.  A  horde 
of  mange-corroded  curs  lived  off  his  bounty,  wolfish, 
ungrateful,  often  marking  him  with  their  teeth,  yet  never 
knowing  the  meaning  of  a  harsh  word.  A  burro,  over- 
fed, lazy,  incorrigible,  browsed  on  the  hill  back  of  the 
Mission,  obstinately  refusing  to  be  harnessed  to  Sarria's 
little  cart,  squealing  and  biting  whenever  the  attempt 
was  made;  and  the  priest  suffered  him,  submitting  to  his 
humour,  inventing  excuses  for  him,  alleging  that  the  bur- 
ro was  foundered,  or  was  in  need  of  shoes,  or  was  feeble 
from  extreme  age.  The  two  peacocks,  magnificent, 
proud,  cold-hearted,  resenting  all  familiarity,  he  served 
with  the  timorous,  apologetic  affection  of  a  queen's  lady- 
in-waiting,  resigned  to  their  disdain,  happy  if  only  they 
condescended  to  enjoy  the  grain  he  spread  for  them. 

At  the  Long  Trestle,  Annixter  and  the  priest  left  the 
road  and  took  the  trail  that  crossed  Broderson  Creek 
by  the  clumps  of  grey-green  willows  and  led  across 
Quien  Sabe  to  the  ranch  house,  and  to  the  Mission  far- 
ther on.  They  were  obliged  to  proceed  in  single  file 
here,  and  Annixter,  who  had  allowed  the  priest  to  go  in 
front,  promptly  took  notice  of  the  wicker  basket  he  car- 
ried. Upon  his  inquiry,  Sarria  became  confused.  "  It 
was  a  basket  that  he  had  had  sent  down  to  him  from  the 
city." 

"  Well,  I  know— but  what's  in  it?  " 

"  Why — I'm  sure — ah,  poultry — a  chicken  or  two." 

"  Fancy  breed?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  that's  it,  a  fancy  breed." 

At  the  ranch  house,  where  they  arrived  toward  five 
o'clock,  Annixter  insisted  that  the  priest  should  stop 
long  enough  for  a  glass  of  sherry.  Sarria  left  the  basket 
and  his  small  black  valise  at  the  foot  of  the  porch  steps, 


A  Story  of  California  205 

and  sat  down  in  a  rocker  on  the  porch  itself,  fanning 
.himself  with  his  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  shaking  the 
dust  from  his  cassock.  Annixter  brought  out  the  de- 
canter of  sherry  and  glasses,  and  the  two  drank  to  each 
other's  health. 

But  as  the  priest  set  down  his  glass,  wiping  his  lips 
with  a  murmur  of  satisfaction,  the  decrepit  Irish  setter 
that  had  attached  himself  to  Annixter's  house  came  out 
from  underneath  the  porch,  and  nosed  vigorously  about 
the  wicker  basket.  He  upset  it.  The  little  peg  holding 
down  the  cover  slipped,  the  basket  fell  sideways,  opening 
as  it  fell,  and  a  cock,  his  head  enclosed  in  a  little  chamois 
bag  such  as  are  used  for  gold  watches,  struggled  blindly 
out  into  the  open  air.  A  second,  similarly  hooded,  fol- 
lowed. The  pair,  stupefied  in  their  headgear,  stood  rigid 
and  bewildered  in  their  tracks,  clucking  uneasily.  Their 
tails  were  closely  sheared.  Their  legs,  thickly  muscled,, 
and  extraordinarily  long,  were  furnished  with  enormous 
cruel-looking  spurs.  The  breed  was  unmistakable.  An- 
nixter looked  once  at  the  pair,  then  shouted  with  laugh- 
ter. 

"  '  Poultry  ' — '  a  chicken  or  two  ' — '  fancy  breed  ' — 
ho!  yes,  I  should  think  so.  Game  cocks!  Fighting 
cocks  !  Oh,  you  old  rat !  You'll  be  a  dry  nurse  to  a  burro, 
and  keep  a  hospital  for  infirm  puppies,  but  you  will  fight 
game  cocks.  Oh,  Lord !  Why,  Sarria,  this  is  as  good 
a  grind  as  I  ever  heard.  There's  the  Spanish  cropping 
out,  after  all." 

Speechless  with  chagrin,  the  priest  bundled  the  cocks 
into  the  basket  and  catching  up  the  valise,  took  himself 
abruptly  away,  almost  running  till  he  had  put  himself 
out  of  hearing  of  Annixter's  raillery.  And  even  ten 
minutes  later,  when  Annixter,  still  chuckling,  stood  upon 
the  porch  steps,  he  saw  the  priest,  far  in  the  distance, 
climbing  the  slope  of  the  high  ground,  in  the  direction 


206  The  Octopus 

of  the  Mission,  still  hurrying  on  at  a  great  pace,  his 
cassock  napping  behind  him,  his  head  bent;  to  Annixter's 
notion  the  very  picture  of  discomfiture  and  confusion. 

As  Annixter  turned  about  to  reenter  the  house,  he 
found  himself  almost  face  to  face  with  Hilma  Tree.  She 
was  just  going  in  at  the  doorway,  and  a  great  flame  of 
the  sunset,  shooting  in  under  the  eaves  of  the  porch, 
enveloped  her  from  her  head,  with  its  thick,  moist  hair 
that  hung  low  over  her  neck,  to  her  slim  feet,  setting  a 
golden  flash  in  the  little  steel  buckles  of  her  low  shoes. 
She  had  come  to  set  the  table  for  Annixter's  supper. 
Taken  all  aback  by  the  suddenness  of  the  encounter, 
Annixter  ejaculated  an  abrupt  and  senseless,  "  Excuse 
me."  But  Hilma,  without  raising  her  eyes,  passed  on 
unmoved  into  the  dining-room,  leaving  Annixter  trying 
to  find  his  breath,  and  fumbling  with  the  brim  of  his  hat, 
that  he  was  surprised  to  find  he  had  taken  from  his  head. 
Resolutely,  and  taking  a  quick  advantage  of  his  oppor- 
tunity, he  followed  her  into  the  dining-room. 

"  I  see  that  dog  has  turned  up,"  he  announced  with 
brisk  cheerfulness.  "  That  Irish  setter  I  was  asking 
about." 

Hilma,  a  swift,  pink  flush  deepening  the  delicate  rose 
of  her  cheeks,  did  not  reply,  except  by  nodding  her  head. 
She  flung  the  table-cloth  out  from  under  her  arms  across 
the  table,  spreading  it  smooth,  with  quick  little  caresses 
of  her  hands.  There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then 
Annixter  said : 

"  Here's  a  letter  for  you."  He  laid  it  down  on  the 
table  near  her,  and  Hilma  picked  it  up.  "  And  see  here, 
Miss  Hilma,"  Annixter  continued,  "  about  that — this 
morning — I  suppose  you  think  I  am  a  first-class  mucker. 
If  it  will  do  any  good  to  apologise,,  why,  I  will.  I  want 
to  be  friends  with  you.  I  made  a  bad  mistake,  and 
started  in  the  wrong  way.  I  don't  know  much  about 


A  Story  of  California  207 

women  people.  I  want  you  to  forget  about  that — this 
morning,  and  not  think  I  am  a  galoot  and  a  mucker.  Will 
you  do  it?  Will  you  be  friends  with  me?  " 

Hilma  set  the  plate  and  coffee  cup  by  Annixter's  place 
before  answering,  and  Annixter  repeated  his  question. 
Then  she  drew  a  deep,  quick  breath,  the  flush  in  her 
cheeks  returning. 

"  I  think  it  was — it  was  so  wrong  of  you,"  she  mur- 
mured. "  Oh!  you  don't  know  how  it  hurt  me.  I  cried 
— oh,  for  an  hour." 

"  Well,  that's  just  it,"  returned  Annixter  vaguely, 
moving  his  head  uneasily.  "  I  didn't  know  what  kind 
of  a  girl  you  were — I  mean,  I  made  a  mistake.  I  thought 
it  didn't  make  much  difference.  I  thought  all  feemales 
were  about  alike." 

"  I  hope  you  know  now,"  murmured  Hilma  ruefully. 
"  I've  paid  enough  to  have  you  find  out.  I  cried — you 
don't  know.  Why,  it  hurt  me  worse  than  anything  I  can 
remember.  I  hope  you  know  now." 

"  Well,.  I  do  know  now,"  he  exclaimed. 

"  It  wasn't  so  much  that  you  tried  to  do — what  you 
did,"  answered  Hilma,  the  single  deep  swell  from  her 
waist  to  her  throat  rising  and  falling  in  her  emotion. 
"  It  was  that  you  thought  that  you  could — that  anybody 
could  that  wanted  to — that  I  held  myself  so  cheap. 
Oh!"  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  sobbing  catch  in  her 
throat,  "  I  never  can  forget  it,  and  you  don't  know  what 
it  means  to  a  girl." 

"  Well,  that's  just  what  I  do  want,"  he  repeated.  "  I 
want  you  to  forget  it  and  have  us  be  good  friends." 

In  his  embarrassment,  Annixter  could  think  of  no 
other  words.  He  kept  reiterating  again  and  again  dur- 
ing the  pauses  of  the  conversation : 

"  I  want  you  to  forget  it.  Will  you?  Will  you  forget 
it— that — this  morning,  and  have  us  be  good  friends?" 


208  The  Octopus 

He  could  see  that  her  trouble  was  keen.  He  was 
astonished  that  the  matter  should  be  so  grave  in  her 
estimation.  After  all,  what  was  it  that  a  girl  should  be 
kissed?  But  he  wanted  to  regain  his  lost  ground. 

"  Will  you  forget  it,  Miss  Hilma?  I  want  you  to  like 
me." 

She  took  a  clean  napkin  from  the  sideboard  drawer 
and  laid  it  down  by  the  plate. 

"  I — I  do  want  you  to  like  me,"  persisted  Annixter. 
"  I  want  you  to  forget  all  about  this  business  and  like 
me." 

Hilma  was  silent.     Annixter  saw  the  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  How  about  that  ?  Will  you  forget  it  ?  Will  you — 
will — will  you  like  me?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  said. 

"  No  what?     You  won't  like  me?     Is  that  it?  " 

Hilma,  blinking  at  the  napkin  through  her  tears, 
nodded  to  say,  Yes,  that  was  it. 

Annixter  hesitated  a  moment,  frowning,  harassed  and 
perplexed. 

"  You  don't  like  me  at  all,  hey?  " 

At  length  Hilma  found  her  speech.  In  her  low  voice, 
lower  and  more  velvety  than  ever,  she  said: 

"  No— I  don't  like  you  at  all." 

Then,  as  the  tears  suddenly  overpowered  her,  she 
dashed  a  hand  across  her  eyes,  and  ran  from  the  room 
and  out  of  doors. 

Annixter  stood  for  a  moment  thoughtful,  his  pro- 
truding lower  lip  thrust  out,  his  hands  in  his  pocket. 

"  I  suppose  she'll  quit  now,"  he  muttered.  "  .Suppose 
she'll  leave  the  ranch — if  she  hates  me  like  that.  Well, 
she  can  go — that's  all — she  can  go.  Fool  feemale  girl," 
he  muttered  between  his  teeth,  "  petticoat  mess." 

He  was  about  to  sit  down  to  his  supper  when  his  eye 


A  Story  of  California  209 

fell  upon  the  Irish  setter,  on  his  haunches  in  the  doorway. 
There  was  an  expectant,  ingratiating  look  on  the  dog's 
face.  No  doubt,  he  suspected  it  was  time  for  eating. 

"  Get  out — you! "  roared  Annixter  in  a  tempest  of 
wrath. 

The  dog  slunk  back,  his  tail  shut  down  close,  his  ears 
drooping,  but  instead  of  running  away,  he  lay  down  and 
rolled  supinely  upon  his  back,  the  very  image  of  sub- 
mission, tame,  abject,  disgusting.  It  was  the  one  thing 
to  drive  Annixter  to  a  fury.  He  kicked  the  dog  off  the 
porch  in  a  rolling  explosion  of  oaths,  and  flung  himself 
down  to  his  seat  before  the  table,  fuming  and  panting. 

"  Damn  the  dog  and  the  girl  and  the  whole  rotten 
business — and  now,"  he  exclaimed,  as  a  sudden  fancied 
qualm  arose  in  his  stomach,  "  now,  it's  all  made  me  sick. 
Might  have  known  it.  Oh,  it  only  lacked  that  to  wind 
up  the  whole  day.  Let  her  go,  I  don't  care,  and  the 
sooner  the  better." 

He  countermanded  the  supper  and  went  to  bed  before 
it  was  dark,  lighting  his  lamp,  on  the  chair  near  the  head 
of  the  bed,  and  opening  his  "  Copperfield  "  at  the  place 
marked  by  the  strip  of  paper  torn  from  the  bag  of 
prunes.  For  upward  of  an  hour  he  read  the  novel, 
methodically  swallowing  one  prune  every  time  he 
reached  the  bottom  of  a  page.  About  nine  o'clock  he 
blew  out  the  lamp  and,  punching  up  his  pillow,  settled 
himself  for  the  night. 

Then,  as  his  mind  relaxed  in  that  strange,  hypnotic 
condition  that  comes  just  before  sleep,  a  series  of  pic- 
tures of  the  day's  doings  passed  before  his  imagination 
like  the  roll  of  a  kinetoscope. 

First,  it  was  Hilma  Tree,  as  he  had  seen  her  in  the 
dairy-house — charming,  delicious,  radiant  of  youth,  her 
thick,  white  neck  with  its  pale  amber  shadows  under  the 
chin ;  her  wide,  open  eyes  rimmed  with  fine,  black  lashes  ; 


210  The  Octopus 

the  deep  swell  of  her  breast  and  hips,  the  delicate,  lus- 
trous floss  on  her  cheek,  impalpable  as  the  pollen  of  a 
flower.  He  saw  her  standing  there  in  the  scintillating 
light  of  the  morning,  her  smooth  arms  wet  with  milk, 
redolent  and  fragrant  of  milk,  her  whole,  desirable  figure 
moving  in  the  golden  glory  of  the  sun,  steeped  in  a  lam- 
bent flame,  saturated  with  it,  glowing  with  it,  joyous  as 
the  dawn  itself. 

Then  it  was  Los  Muertos  and  Hooven,  the  sordid 
little  Dutchman,  grimed  with  the  soil  he  worked  in,  yet 
vividly  remembering  a  period  of  military  glory,  exciting 
himself  with  recollections  of  Gravelotte  and  the  Kaiser, 
but  contented  now  in  the  country  of  his  adoption,  defining 
the  Fatherland  as  the  place  where  wife  and  children  lived. 
Then  came  the  ranch  house  of  Los  Muertos,  under  the 
grove  of  cypress  and  eucalyptus,  with  its  smooth,  grav- 
elled driveway  and  well-groomed  lawns;  Mrs.  Derrick 
with  her  wide-opened  eyes,  that  so  easily  took  on  a  look 
of  uneasiness,  of  innocence,  of  anxious  inquiry,  her  face 
still  pretty,  her  brown  hair  that  still  retained  so  much 
of  its  brightness  spread  over  her  chair  back,  drying  in 
the  sun;  Magnus,  erect  as  an  officer  of  cavalry,  smooth- 
shaven,  grey,  thin-lipped,  imposing,  with  his  hawk-like 
nose  and  forward-curling  grey  hair;  Presley  with  his 
dark  face,  delicate  mouth  and  sensitive,  loose  lips,  in 
corduroys  and  laced  boots,  smoking  cigarettes — an  in- 
teresting figure,  suggestive  of  a  mixed  origin,  morbid, 
excitable,  melancholy,  brooding  upon  things  that  had  no 
names.  Then  it  was  Bonneville,  with  the  gayety  and 
confusion  of  Main  Street,  the  whirring  electric  cars,  the 
zinc-sheathed  telegraph  poles,  the  buckboards  with 
squashes  stowed  under  the  seats;  Ruggles  in  frock  coat, 
Stetson  hat  and  shoe-string  necktie,  writing  abstract- 
edly upon  his  blotting  pad;  Dyke,  the  engineer,  big- 
boned,  powerful,  deep-voiced,  good-natured,  with  his 


A  Story  of  California  2 1 1 

fine  blonde  beard  and  massive  arms,  rehearsing  the 
praises  of  his  little  daughter  Sidney,  guided  only  by  the 
one  ambition  that  she  should  be  educated  at  a  seminary, 
slipping  a  dime  into  the  toe  of  her  diminutive  slipper, 
then,  later,  overwhelmed  with  shame,  slinking  into  S. 
Behrman's  office  to  mortgage  his  homestead  to  the 
heeler  of  the  corporation  that  had  discharged  him.  By 
suggestion,  Annixter  saw  S.  Behrman,  too,  fat,  with  a 
vast  stomach,  the  check  and  neck  meeting  to  form  a 
great,  tremulous  jowl,  the  roll  of  fat  over  his  collar, 
sprinkled  with  sparse,  stiff  hairs;  saw  his  brown,  round- 
topped  hat  of  varnished  straw,  the  linen  vest  stamped 
with  innumerable  interlocked  horseshoes,  the  heavy  watch 
chain,  clinking  against  the  pearl  vest  buttons ;  invariably 
placid,  unruffled,  never  losing  his  temper,  serene,  unas- 
sailable, enthroned. 

Then,  at  the  end  of  all,  it  was  the  ranch  again,  seen  in 
a  last  brief  glance  before  he  had  gone  to  bed;  the  fecun- 
dated earth,  calm  at  last,  nursing  the  emplanted  germ  of 
life,  ruddy  with  the  sunset,  the  horizons  purple,  the  small 
clamour  of  the  day  lapsing  into  quiet,  the  great,  still  twi- 
light, building  itself,  dome-like,  toward  the  zenith.  The 
barn  fowls  were  roosting  in  the  trees  near  the  stable,  the 
horses  crunching  their  fodder  in  the  stalls,  the  day's  work 
ceasing  by  slow  degrees;  and  the  priest,  the  Spanish 
churchman,  Father  Sarria,  relic  of  a  departed  regime, 
kindly,  benign,  believing  in  all  goodness,  a  lover  of  his 
fellows  and  of  dumb  animals,  yet,  for  all  that,  hurrying 
away  in  confusion  and  discomfiture,  carrying  in  one 
hand  the  vessels  of  the  Holy  Communion  and  in  the 
other  a  basket  of  game  cocks. 


CHAPTER  VI 

It  was  high  noon,  and  the  rays  of  the  sun,  that  hung 
poised  directly  overhead  in  an  intolerable  white  glory,  fell 
straight  as  plummets  upon  the  roofs  and  streets  of  Gua- 
dalajara. The  adobe  walls  and  sparse  brick  sidewalks 
of  the  drowsing  town  radiated  the  heat  in  an  oily,  quiver- 
ing shimmer.  The  leaves  of  the  eucalyptus  trees  around 
the  Plaza  drooped  motionless,  limp  and  relaxed  under  the 
scorching,  searching  blaze.  The  shadows  of  these  trees 
had  shrunk  to  their  smallest  circumference,  contracting 
close  about  the  trunks.  The  shade  had  dwindled  to  the 
breadth  of  a  mere  line.  The  sun  was  everywhere.  The 
heat  exhaling  from  brick  and  plaster  and  metal  met  the 
heat  that  steadily  descended  blanketwise  and  smother- 
ing, from  the  pale,  scorched  sky.  Only  the  lizards — they 
lived  in  chinks  of  the  crumbling  adobe  and  in  interstices 
of  the  sidewalk — remained  without,  motionless,  as  if 
stuffed,  their  eyes  closed  to  mere  slits,  basking,  stupefied 
with  heat.  At  long  intervals  the  prolonged  drone  of  an 
insect  developed  out  of  the  silence,  vibrated  a  moment  in 
a  soothing,  somnolent,  long  note,  then  trailed  slowly  into 
the  quiet  again.  Somewhere  in  the  interior  of  one  of  the 
'dobe  houses  a  guitar  snored  and  hummed  sleepily.  On 
the  roof  of  the  hotel  a  group  of  pigeons  cooed  incessantly 
with  subdued,  liquid  murmurs,  very  plaintive ;  a  cat,  per- 
fectly white,  with  a  pink  nose  and  thin,  pink  lips,  dozed 
complacently  on  a  fence  rail,  full  in  the  sun.  In  a  corner 
of  the  Plaza  three  hens  wallowed  in  the  baking  hot  dust, 
their  wings  fluttering,  clucking  comfortably. 


A  Story  of  California  213 

And  this  was  all.  A  Sunday  repose  prevailed  the  whole 
moribund  town,  peaceful,  profound.  A  certain  pleasing 
numbness,  a  sense  of  grateful  enervation  exhaled  from 
the  scorching  plaster.  There  was  no  movement,  no  sound 
of  human  business.  The  faint  hum  of  the  insect,  the 
intermittent  murmur  of  the  guitar,  the  mellow  complain- 
ings of  the  pigeons,  the  prolonged  purr  of  the  white  cat, 
the  contented  clucking  of  the  hens — all  these  noises  min- 
gled together  to  form  a  faint,  drowsy  bourdon,  pro- 
longed, stupefying,  suggestive  of  an  infinite  quiet,  of  a 
calm,  complacent  life,  centuries  old,  lapsing  gradually  to 
its  end  under  the  gorgeous  loneliness  of  a  cloudless,  pale 
blue  sky  and  the  steady  fire  of  an  interminable  sun. 

In  Solotari's  Spanish-Mexican  restaurant,  Vanamee 
and  Presley  sat  opposite  each  other  at  one  of  the  tables 
near  the  door,  a  bottle  of  white  wine,  tortillas,  and  an 
earthen  pot  of  frijoles  between  them.  They  were  the 
sole  occupants  of  the  place.  It  was  the  day  that  Annix- 
ter  had  chosen  for  his  barn-dance  and,  in  consequence, 
Quien  Sabe  was  in  fete  and  work  suspended.  Presley 
and  Vanamee  had  arranged  to  spend  the  day  in  each 
other's  company,  lunching  at  Solotari's  and  taking  a  long 
tramp  in  the  afternoon.  For  the  moment  they  sat  back 
in  their  chairs,  their  meal  all  but  finished.  Solotari 
brought  black  coffee  and  a  small  carafe  of  mescal,  and 
retiring  to  a  corner  of  the  room,  went  to  sleep. 

All  through  the  meal  Presley  had  been  wondering  over 
a  certain  change  he  observed  in  his  friend.  He  looked 
at  him  again. 

Vanamee's  lean,  spare  face  was  of  an  olive  pallor.  His 
long,  black  hair,  such  as  one  sees  in  the  saints  and  evan- 
gelists of  the  pre-Raphaelite  artists,  hung  over  his  ears. 
Presley  again  remarked  his  pointed  beard,  black  and  fine, 
growing  from  the  hollow  cheeks.  He  looked  at  his  face, 
a  face  like  that  of  a  young  seer,  like  a  half-inspired 


214  The  Octopus 

shepherd  of  the  Hebraic  legends,  a  dweller  in  the  wilder- 
ness, gifted  with  strange  powers.  He  was  dressed  as 
when  Presley  had  first  met  him,  herding  his  sheep,  in 
brown  canvas  overalls,  thrust  into  top  boots ;  grey  flannel 
shirt,  open  at  the  throat,  showing  the  breast  ruddy  with 
tan;  the  waist  encircled  with  a  cartridge  belt,  empty  of 
cartridges. 

But  now,  as  Presley  took  more  careful  note  of  him,  he 
\vas  surprised  to  observe  a  certain  new  look  in  Vanamee's 
deep-set  eyes.  He  remembered  now  that  all  through  the 
morning  Vanamee  had  been  singularly  reserved.  He  was 
continually  drifting  into  reveries,  abstracted,  distrait. 
Indubitably,  something  of  moment  had  happened. 

At  length  Vanamee  spoke.  Leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
his  thumbs  in  his  belt,  his  bearded  chin  upon  his  breast, 
his  voice  was  the  even  monotone  of  one  speaking  in  his 
sleep. 

He  told  Presley  in  a  few  words  what  had  happened 
during  the  first  night  he  had  spent  in  the  garden  of  the 
old  Mission,  of  the  Answer,  half-fancied,  half-real,  that 
had  come  to  him. 

"  To  no  other  person  but  you  would  I  speak  of  this," 
he  said,  "  but  you,  I  think,  will  understand — will  be  sym- 
pathetic, at  least,  and  I  feel  the  need  of  unburdening 
myself  of  it  to  some  one.  At  first  I  would  not  trust  my 
own  senses.  I  was  sure  I  had  deceived  myself,  but  on  a 
second  night  it  happened  again.  Then  I  was  afraid — or 
no,  not  afraid,  but  disturbed — oh,  shaken  to  my  very, 
heart's  core.  I  resolved  to  go  no  further  in  the  matter, 
never  again  to  put  it  to  test.  For  a  long  time  I  stayed 
away  from  the  Mission,  occupying  myself  with  my  work, 
keeping  it  out  of  my  mind.  But  the  temptation  was  too 
strong.  One  night  I  found  myself  there  again,  under 
the  black  shadow  of  the  pear  trees  calling  for  Angele, 
summoning-  ?>•;•?  fre*^.  out  the  dark,  from  out  the  night. 


A  Story  of  California  215 

This  time  the  Answer  was  prompt,  unmistakable.  I  can- 
not explain  to  you  what  it  was,  nor  how  it  came  to  me, 
for  there  was  no  sound.  I  saw  absolutely  nothing  but 
the  empty  night.  There  was  no  moon.  But  somewhere 
off  there  over  the  little  valley,  far  off,  the  darkness  was 
troubled;  that  me  that  went  out  upon  my  thought — out 
from  the  Mission  garden,  out  over  the  valley,  calling  for 
her,  searching  for  her,  found,  I  don't  know  what,  but 
found  a  resting  place — a  companion.  Three  times  since 
then  I  have  gone  to  the  Mission  garden  at  night.  Last 
night  was  the  third  time/' 

He  paused,  his  eyes  shining  with  excitement.  Presley 
leaned  forward  toward  him,  motionless  with  intense 
absorption. 

"  Well— and  last  night/'  he  prompted. 

Vanamee  stirred  in  his  seat,  his  glance  fell,  he  drummed 
an  instant  upon  the  table. 

"  Last  night,"  he  answered,  "  there  was — there  was  a 
change.  The  Answer  was — "  he  drew  a  deep  breath — 
"nearer." 

"You  are  sure?" 

The  other  smiled  with  absolute  certainty. 

"  It  was  not  that  I  found  the  Answer  sooner,  easier.  I 
could  not  be  mistaken.  No,  that  which  has  troubled  the 
darkness,  that  which  has  entered  into  the  empty  night — is 
coming  nearer  to  me — physically  nearer,  actually  nearer/' 

His  voice  sank  again.  His  face  like  the  face  of  younger 
prophets,  the  seers,  took  on  a  half-inspired  expression. 
He  looked  vaguely  before  him  with  unseeing  eyes. 

"  Suppose,"  he  murmured,  "  suppose  I  stand  there 
under  the  pear  trees  at  night  and  call  her  again  and  again, 
and  each  time  the  Answer  comes  nearer  and  nearer  and  I 
wait  until  at  last  one  night,  the  supreme  night  of  all, 
she— she " 

Suddenly  the  tension  broke.     With  a  sharp  cry  and  a 


216  The  Octopus 

violent  uncertain  gesture  of  the  hand  Vanamee  came  to 
himself. 

"  Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  "  what  is  it?  Do  I  dare?  What 
does  it  mean?  There  are  times  when  it  appals  me  and 
there  are  times  when  it  thrills  me  with  a  sweetness  and  a 
happiness  that  I  have  not  known  since  she  died.  The 
vagueness  of  it!  How  can  I  explain  it  to  you,  this  that 
happens  when  I  call  to  her  across  the  night — that  faint, 
far-off,  unseen  tremble  in  the  darkness,  that  intangible, 
scarcely  perceptible  stir.  Something  neither  heard  nor 
seen,  appealing  to  a  sixth  sense  only.  Listen,  it  is  some- 
thing like  this :  On  Quien  Sabe,  all  last  week,  we  have 
been  seeding  the  earth.  The  grain  is  there  now  under 
the  earth  buried  in  the  dark,  in  the  black  stillness,  under 
the  clods.  Can  you  imagine  the  first — the  very  first  little 
quiver  of  life  that  the  grain  of  wheat  must  feel  after  it  is 
sown,  when  it  answers  to  the  call  of  the  sun,  down  there 
in  the  dark  of  the  earth,  blind,  deaf;  the  very  first  stir 
from  the  inert,  long,  long  before  any  physical  change  has 
occurred, — long  before  the  microscope  could  discover  the 
slightest  change, — when  the  shell  first  tightens  with  the 
first  faint  premonition  of  life?  Well,  it  is  something  as 
illusive  as  that."  He  paused  again,  dreaming,  lost  in  a 
reverie,  then,  just  above  a  whisper,  murmured: 

" '  That  which  thou  sowest  is  not  quickened  except  it 
die/  .  .  .  and  she,  Angele  .  .  .  died/' 

"  You  could  not  have  been  mistaken  ?  "  said  Presley. 
"  You  were  sure  that  there  was  something  ?  Imagination 
can  do  so  much  and  the  influence  of  the  surroundings 
was  strong.  How  impossible  it  would  be  that  anything 
should  happen.  And  you  say  you  heard  nothing,  saw 
nothing/' 

"  I  believe,"  answered  Vanamee,  "  in  a  sixth  sense,  or, 
rather,  a  whole  system  of  other  unnamed  senses  beyond 
the  reach  of  our  understanding.  People  who  live  much 


A  Story  of  California  217 

alone  and  close  to  nature  experience  the  sensation  of  it. 
Perhaps  it  is  something  fundamental  that  we  share  with 
plants  and  animals.  The  same  thing  that  sends  the 
birds  south  long  before  the  first  colds,  the  same  thing  that 
makes  the  grain  of  wheat  struggle  up  to  meet  the  sun. 
And  this  sense  never  deceives.  You  may  see  wrong, 
hear  wrong,  but  once  touch  this  sixth  sense  and  it  acts 
with  absolute  fidelity,  you  are  certain.  No,  I  hear  noth- 
ing in  the  Mission  garden.  I  see  nothing,  nothing 
touches  me,  but  I  am  certain  for  all  that." 

Presley  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  he  asked: 

"  Shall  you  go  back  to  the  garden  again  ?  Make  the 
test  again  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Strange  enough/'  commented  Presley,  wondering. 

Vanamee  sank  back  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  growing 
vacant  again: 

"  Strange  enough,"  he  murmured. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Neither  spoke  nor  moved. 
There,  in  that  moribund,  ancient  town,  wrapped  in  its 
siesta,  flagellated  with  heat,  deserted,  ignored,  baking  in 
a  noon-day  silence,  these  two  strange  men,  the  one  a  poet 
by  nature,  the  other  by  training,  both  out  of  tune  with 
their  world,  dreamers,  introspective,  morbid,  lost  and  un- 
familiar at  that  end-of-the-century  time,  searching  for  a 
sign,  groping  and  baffled  amidst  the  perplexing  obscurity 
of  the  Delusion,  sat  over  empty  wine  glasses,  silent  with 
the  pervading  silence  that  surrounded  them,  hearing  only 
the  cooing  of  doves  and  the  drone  of  bees,  the  quiet  so 
profound,  that  at  length  they  could  plainly  distinguish  at 
intervals  the  puffing  and  coughing  of  a  locomotive 
switching  cars  in  the  station  yard  of  Bonneville. 

It  was,  no  doubt,  this  jarring  sound  that  at  length 
roused  Presley  from  his  lethargy.  The  two  friends  rose ; 
Solotari  very  sleepily  came  forward;  they  paid  for  the 


2i8  The  Octopus 

luncheon,  and  stepping  out  into  the  heat  and  glare  of  the 
streets  of  the  town,  passed  on  through  it  and  took  the 
road  that  led  northward  across  a  corner  of  Dyke's  hop 
fields.  They  were  bound  for  the  hills  in  the  northeastern 
corner  of  Quien  Sabe.  It  was  the  same  walk  which 
Presley  had  taken  on  the  previous  occasion  when  he  had 
first  met  Vanamee  herding  the  sheep.  This  encompass- 
ing detour  around  the  whole  country-side  was  a  favorite 
pastime  of  his  and  he  was  anxious  that  Vanamee  should 
share  his  pleasure  in  it. 

But  soon  after  leaving  Guadalajara,  they  found  them- 
selves upon  the  land  that  Dyke  had  bought  and  upon 
which  he  was  to  raise  his  famous  crop  of  hops.  Dyke's 
house  was  close  at  hand,  a  very  pleasant  little  cottage, 
painted  white,  with  green  blinds  and  deep  porches,  while 
near  it  and  yet  in  process  of  construction,  were  two  great 
storehouses  and  a  drying  and  curing  house,  where  the 
hops  were  to  be  stored  and  treated.  All  about  were  evi- 
dences that  the  former  engineer  had  already  been  hard  at 
work.  The  ground  had  been  put  in  readiness  to  receive 
the  crop  and  a  bewildering,  innumerable  multitude  of 
poles,  connected  with  a  maze  of  wire  and  twine,  had  been 
set  out.  Farther  on  at  a  turn  of  the  road,  they  came  upon 
Dyke  himself,  driving  a  farm  wagon  loaded  with  more 
poles.  He  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  his  massive,  hairy 
arms  bare  to  the  elbow,  glistening  with  sweat,  red  with 
heat.  In  his  bell-like,  rumbling  voice,  he  was  calling  to 
his  foreman  and  a  boy  at  work  in  stringing  the  poles 
together.  At  sight  of  Presley  and  Vanamee  he  hailed 
them  jovially,  addressing  them  as  "boys/'  and  insisting 
that  they  should  get  into  the  wagon  with  him  and  drive 
to  the  house  for  a  glass  of  beer.  His  mother  had  only 
the  day  before  returned  from  Marysville,  where  she  had 
been  looking  up  a  seminary  for  the  little  tad.  She  would 
be  delighted  to  see  the  two  boys ;  besides,  Vanamee  must 


A  Story  of  California  219 

see  how  the  little  tad  had  grown  since  he  last  set  eyes  on 
her ;  wouldn't  know  her  for  the  same  little  girl ;  and  the 
beer  had  been  on  ice  since  morning.  Presley  and  Vana- 
mee  could  not  well  refuse. 

They  climbed  into  the  wagon  and  jolted  over  the 
uneven  ground  through  the  bare  forest  of  hop-poles  to 
the  house.  Inside  they  found  Mrs.  Dyke,  an  old  lady 
with  a  very  gentle  face,  who  wore  a  cap  and  a  very  old- 
fashioned  gown  with  hoop  skirts,  dusting  the  what-not  in 
a  corner  of  the  parlor.  The  two  men  were  presented  and 
the  beer  was  had  from  off  the  ice. 

"  Mother/'  said  Dyke,  as  he  wiped  the  froth  from  his 
great  blond  beard,  "  ain't  Sid  anywheres  about  ?  I  want 
Mr.  Vanamee  to  see  how  she  has  grown.  Smartest  little 
tad  in  Tulare  County,  boys.  Can  recite  the  whole  of 
*  Snow  Bound/  end  to  end,  without  skipping  or  looking  at 
the  book.  Maybe  you  don't  believe  that.  Mother,  ain't 
I  right — without  skipping  a  line,  hey  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dyke  nodded  to  say  that  it  was  so,  but  explained 
that  Sidney  was  in  Guadalajara.  In  putting  on  her  new 
slippers  for  the  first  time  the  morning  before,  she  had 
found  a  dime  in  the  toe  of  one  of  them  and  had  had  the 
whole  house  by  the  ears  ever  since  till  she  could  spend  it. 

"  Was  it  for  licorice  to  make  her  licorice  water  ? " 
inquired  Dyke  gravely. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Dyke.  "  I  made  her  tell  me  what  she 
was  going  to  get  before  she  went,  and  it  was  licorice." 

Dyke,  though  his  mother  protested  that  he  was  foolish 
and  that  Presley  and  Vanamee  had  no  great  interest  in 
"  young  ones,"  insisted  upon  showing  the  visitors  Sidney's 
copy-books.  They  were  monuments  of  laborious,  elabor- 
ate neatness,  the  trite  moralities  and  ready-made  aphor- 
isms of  the  philanthropists  and  publicists,  repeated  from 
page  to  page  with  wearying  insistence.  "  I,  too,  am  an 
American  Citizen.  S.  D.,"  "As  the  Twig  is  Bent  the 


220  The  Octopus 

Tree  is  Inclined,"  "  Truth  Crushed  to  Earth  Will  Rise 
Again/'  "As  for  Me,  Give  Me  Liberty  or  Give  Me 
Death,"  and  last  of  all,  a  strange  intrusion  amongst  the 
mild,  well-worn  phrases,  two  legends.  "  My  motto — 
Public  Control  of  Public  Franchises,"  and  "  The  P.  and 
S.  W.  is  an  Enemy  of  the  State." 

"  I  see,"  commented  Presley,  "  you  mean  the  little  tad 
to  understand  '  the  situation '  early." 

"  I  told  him  he  was  foolish  to  give  that  to  Sid  to  copy," 
said  Mrs.  Dyke,  with  indulgent  remonstrance.  "  What 
can  she  understand  of  public  franchises  ?  " 

"  Never  mind,"  observed  Dyke,  "  she'll  remember  it 
when  she  grows  up  and  when  the  seminary  people  have 
rubbed  her  up  a  bit,  and  then  she'll  begin  to  ask  questions 
and  understand.  And  don't  you  make  any  mistake, 
mother,"  he  went  on,  "  about  the  little  tad  not  knowing 
who  her  dad's  enemies  are.  What  do  you  think,  boys? 
Listen,  here.  Precious  little  I've  ever  told  her  of  the 
railroad  or  how  I  was  turned  off,  but  the  other  day  I  was 
working  down  by  the  fence  next  the  railroad  tracks  and 
Sid  was  there.  She'd  brought  her  doll  rags  down  and 
she  was  playing  house  behind  a  pile  of  hop  poles.  Well, 
along  comes  a  through  freight — mixed  train  from  Mis- 
souri points  and  a  string  of  empties  from  New  Orleans, — • 
and  when  it  had  passed,  what  do  you  suppose  the  tad  did  ? 
She  didn't  know  I  was  watching  her.  She  goes  to  the 
fence  and  spits  a  little  spit  after  the  caboose  and  puts  out 
her  little  head  and,  if  you'll  believe  me,  hisses  at  the 
train;  and  mother  says  she  does  that  same  every  time 
she  sees  a  train  go  by,  and  never  crosses  the  tracks  that 
she  don't  spit  her  little  spit  on  'em.  What  do  you  think 
of  that?" 

"  But  I  correct  her  every  time,"  protested  Mrs.  Dyke 
seriously.  "  Where  she  picked  up  the  trick  of  hissing  I 
don't  know.  No,  it's  not  funny.  It  seems  dreadful  to 


A  Story  of  California  221 

see  a  little  girl  who's  as  sweet  and  gentle  as  can  be  in 
every  other  way,  so  venomous.  She  says  the  other  little 
girls  at  school  and  the  boys,  too,  are  all  the  same  way. 
Oh,  dear,"  she  sighed,  "why  will  the  General  Office  be 
so  unkind  and  unjust  ?  Why,  I  couldn't  be  happy,  with 
all  the  money  in  the  world,  if  I  thought  that  even  one 
little  child  hated  me — hated  me  so  that  it  would  spit  and 
hiss  at  me.  And  it's  not  one  child,  it's  all  of  them,  so 
Sidney  says ;  and  think  of  all  the  grown  people  who  hate 
the  road,  women  and  men,  the  whole  county,  the  whole 
State,  thousands  and  thousands  of  people.  Don't  the 
managers  and  the  directors  of  the  road  ever  think  of 
that  ?  Don't  they  ever  think  of  all  the  hate  that  surrounds 
them,  everywhere,  everywhere,  and  the  good  people  that 
just  grit  their  teeth  when  the  name  of  the  road  is  men- 
tioned ?  Why  do  they  want  to  make  the  people  hate  them  ? 
No,"  she  murmured,  the  tears  starting  to  her  eyes,  "  No, 
I  tell  you,  Mr.  Presley,  the  men  who  own  the  railroad  are 
wicked,  bad-hearted  men  who  don't  care  how  much  the 
poor  people  suffer,  so  long  as  the  road  makes  its  eighteen 
million  a  year.  They  don't  care  whether  the  people  hate 
them  or  love  them,  just  so  long  as  they  are  afraid  of 
them.  It's  not  right  and  God  will  punish  them  sooner  or 
later." 

A  little  after  this  the  two  young  men  took  themselves 
away,  Dyke  obligingly  carrying  them  in  the  wagon  as  far 
as  the  gate  that  opened  into  the  Quien  Sabe  ranch.  On 
the  way,  Presley  referred  to  what  Mrs.  Dyke  had  said  and 
led  Dyke,  himself,  to  speak  of  the  P.  and  S.  W. 

"Well,"  Dyke  said,  "it's  like  this,  Mr.  Presley.  I, 
personally,  haven't  got  the  right  to  kick.  With  you 
wheat-growing  people  I  guess  it's  different,  but  hops,  you 
see,  don't  count  for  much  in  the  State.  It's  such  a  little 
business  that  the  road  don't  want  to  bother  themselves  to 
tax  it.  It's  the  wheat  growers  that  the  road  cinches. 


222  The  Octopus 

The  rates  on  hops  are  fair.  I've  got  to  admit  that ;  I  was 
in  to  Bonneville  a  while  ago  to  find  out.  It's  two  cents  a 
pound,  and  Lord  love  you,  that's  reasonable  enough  to 
suit  any  man.  No,"  he  concluded,  "  I'm  on  the  way  to 
make  money  now.  The  road  sacking  me  as  they  did 
was,  maybe,  a  good  thing  for  me,  after  all.  It  came  just 
at  the  right  time.  I  had  a  bit  of  money  put  by  and  here 
was  the  chance  to  go  into  hops  with  the  certainty  that 
hops  would  quadruple  and  quintuple  in  price  inside  the 
year.  No,  it  was  my  chance,  and  though  they  didn't 
mean  it  by  a  long  chalk,  the  railroad  people  did  me  a 
good  turn  when  they  gave  me  my  time — and  the  tad'll 
enter  the  seminary  next  fall." 

About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  they  had  said  good- 
bye to  the  one-time  engineer,  Presley  and  Vanamee, 
tramping  briskly  along  the  road  that  led  northward 
through  Quien  Sabe,  arrived  at  Annixter's  ranch  house. 
At  once  they  were  aware  of  a  vast  and  unwonted  bustle 
that  revolved  about  the  place.  They  stopped  a  few 
moments  looking  on,  amused  and  interested  in  what  was 
going  forward. 

The  colossal  barn  was  finished.  Its  freshly  white- 
washed sides  glared  intolerably  in  the  sun,  but  its  interior 
was  as  yet  innocent  of  paint  and  through  the  yawning 
vent  of  the  sliding  doors  came  a  delicious  odour  of  new, 
fresh  wood  and  shavings.  A  crowd  of  men — Annixter's 
farm  hands — were  swarming  all  about  it.  Some  were 
balanced  on  the  topmost  rounds  of  ladders,  hanging  fes- 
toons of  Japanese  lanterns  from  tree  to  tree,  and  all 
across  the  front  of  the  barn  itself.  Mrs.  Tree,  her  daugh- 
ter Hilma  and  another  woman  were  inside  the  barn  cut- 
ting into  long  strips  bolt  after  bolt  of  red,  white  and  blue 
cambric  and  directing  how  these  strips  should  be  draped 
from  the  ceiling  and  on  the  walls ;  everywhere  resounded 
the  tapping  of  tack  hammers.  A  farm  wagon  drove  up 


A  Story  of  California  223, 

loaded  to  overflowing  with  evergreens  and  with  great 
bundles  of  palm  leaves,  and  these  were  immediately 
seized  upon  and  affixed  as  supplementary  decorations  to- 
the  tri-coloured  cambric  upon  the  inside  walk  of  the  barn. 
Two  of  the  larger  evergreen  trees  were  placed  on  either 
side  the  barn  door  and  their  tops  bent  over  to  form  an 
arch.  In  the  middle  of  this  arch  it  was  proposed  to  hang 
a  mammoth  pasteboard  escutcheon  with  gold  letters, 
spelling  the  word  Welcome.  Piles  of  chairs,  rented  from 
I.O.O.F.  hall  in  Bonneville,  heaped  themselves  in  an  ap- 
parently hopeless  entanglement  on  the  ground;  while  at 
the  far  extremity  of  the  barn  a  couple  of  carpenters  clat- 
tered about  the  impromptu  staging  which  was  to  accom- 
modate the  band. 

There  was  a  strenuous  gayety  in  the  air;  everybody 
was  in  the  best  of  spirits.  Notes  of  laughter  continually 
interrupted  the  conversation  on  every  hand.  At  every 
moment  a  group  of  men  involved  themselves  in  uproari- 
ous horse-play.  They  passed  oblique  jokes  behind  their 
hands  to  each  other — grossly  veiled  double-meanings 
meant  for  the  women — and  bellowed  with  laughter 
thereat,  stamping  on  the  ground.  The  relations  between 
the  sexes  grew  more  intimate,  the  women  and  girls  push- 
ing the  young  fellows  away  from  their  sides  with  vigor- 
ous thrusts  of  their  elbows.  It  was  passed  from  group 
to  group  that  Adela  Vacca,  a  division  superintendent's 
wife,  had  lost  her  garter ;  the  daughter  of  the  foreman 
of  the  Home  ranch  was  kissed  behind  the  door  of  the 
dairy-house. 

Annixter,  in  execrable  temper,  appeared  from  time  to 
time,  hatless,  his  stiff  yellow  hair  in  wild  disorder.  He 
hurried  between  the  barn  and  the  ranch  house,  carrying 
now  a  wickered  demijohn,  now  a  case  of  wine,  now  a 
basket  of  lemons  and  pineapples.  Besides  general  super- 
vision, he  had  elected  to  assume  the  responsibility  of 


224  The  Octopus 

composing  the  punch — something  stiff,  by  jingo,  a  punch 
that  would  raise  you  right  out  of  your  boots;  a  regular 
hairlifter. 

The  harness  room  of  the  barn  he  had  set  apart  for 
himself  and  intimates.  He  had  brought  a  long  table 
down  from  the  house  and  upon  it  had  set  out  boxes  of 
cigars,  bottles  of  whiskey  and  of  beer  and  the  great 
china  bowls  for  the  punch.  It  would  be  no  fault  of  his, 
he  declared,  if  half  the  number  of  his  men  friends  were 
not  uproarious  before  they  left.  His  barn  dance  would 
be  the  talk  of  all  Tulare  County  for  years  to  come.  For 
this  one  day  he  had  resolved  to  put  all  thoughts  of  busi- 
ness out  of  his  head.  For  the  matter  of  that,  things  were 
going  well  enough.  Osterman  was  back  from  Los  An- 
geles with  a  favourable  report  as  to  his  affair  with  Dis- 
brow  and  Darrell.  There  had  been  another  meeting  of 
the  committee.  Harran  Derrick  had  attended.  Though 
Tie  had  taken  no  part  in  the  discussion,  Annixter  was 
satisfied.  The  Governor  had  consented  to  allow  Harran 
to  "  come  in,"  if  he  so  desired,  and  Harran  had  pledged 
himself  to  share  one-sixth  of  the  campaign  expenses, 
providing  these  did  not  exceed  a  certain  figure. 

As  Annixter  came  to  the  door  of  the  barn  to  shout 
abuse  at  the  distraught  Chinese  cook  who  was  cutting  up 
lemons  in  the  kitchen,  he  caught  sight  of  Presley  and 
Vanamee  and  hailed  them. 

"  Hello,  Pres,"  he  called.  "  Come  over  here  and  see 
"how  she  looks ; "  he  indicated  the  barn  with  a  movement 
of  his  head.  "  Well,  we're  getting  ready  for  you  to- 
night," he  went  on  as  the  two  friends  came  up.  "  But 
how  we  are  going  to  get  straightened  out  by  eight  o'clock 
I  don't  know.  Would  you  believe  that  pip  Caraher  is 
short  of  lemons — at  this  last  minute  and  I  told  him  I'd 
want  three  cases  of  'em  as  much  as  a  month  ago,  and 
here,  just  when  I  want  a  good  lively  saddle  horse  to  get 


A  Story  of  California  225 

around  on,  somebody  hikes  the  buckskin  out  the  corral. 
Stole  her,  by  jingo.  I'll  have  the  law  on  that  thief  if  it 
breaks  me — and  a  sixty-dollar  saddle  'n'  head-stall  gone 
with  her ;  and  only  about  half  the  number  of  Jap  lanterns 
that  I  ordered  have  shown  up  and  not  candles  enough  for 
those.  It's  enough  to  make  a  dog  sick.  There's  nothing 
done  that  you  don't  do  yourself,  unless  you  stand  over 
these  loafers  with  a  club.  I'm  sick  of  the  whole  business 
— and  I've  lost  my  hat;  wish  to  God  I'd  never  dreamed 
of  givin'  this  rotten  fool  dance.  Clutter  the  whole  place 
up  with  a  lot  of  feemales.  I  sure  did  lose  my  presence  of 
mind  when  I  got  that  idea." 

Then,  ignoring  the  fact  that  it  was  he,  himself,  who 
had  called  the  young  men  to  him,  he  added : 

"  Well,  this  is  my  busy  day.  Sorry  I  can't  stop  and 
talk  to  you  longer." 

He  shouted  a  last  imprecation  at  the  Chinaman  and 
turned  back  into  the  barn.  Presley  and  Vanamee  went 
on,  but  Annixter,  as  he  crossed  the  floor  of  the  barn,  all 
but  collided  with  Hilma  Tree,  who  came  out  from  one 
of  the  stalls.,  a  box  of  candles  in  her  arms. 

Gasping  out  an  apology,  Annixter  reentered  the  har- 
ness room,  closing  the  door  behind  him,  and  forgetting 
all  the  responsibility  of  the  moment,  lit  a  cigar  and  sat 
down  in  one  of  the  hired  chairs,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
his  feet  on  the  table,  frowning  thoughtfully  through  the 
blue  smoke. 

Annixter  was  at  last  driven  to  confess  to  himself  that 
he  could  not  get  the  thought  of  Hilma  Tree  out  of  his 
mind.  Finally  she  had  "  got  a  hold  on  him."  The  thing 
that  of  all  others  he  most  dreaded  had  happened.  A 
feemale  girl  had  got  a  hold  on  him,  and  now  there  was 
no  longer  for  him  any  such  thing  as  peace  of  mind.  The 
idea  of  the  young  woman  was  with  him  continually.  He 
went  to  bed  with  it ;  he  got  up  with  it.  At  every  moment 


226  The  Octopus 

of  the  day  he  was  pestered  with  it.  It  interfered  with 
his  work,  got  mixed  up  in  his  business.  What  a  miser- 
able confession  for  a  man  to  make ;  a  fine  way  to  waste 
his  time.  Was  it  possible  that  only  the  other  day  he  had 
stood  in  front  of  the  music  store  in  Bonneville  and  seri- 
ously considered  making  Hilma  a  present  of  a  music- 
box?  Even  now,  the  very  thought  of  it  made  him  flush 
with  shame,  and  this  after  she  had  told  him  plainly  that 
she  did  not  like  him.  He  was  running  after  her — he, 
Annixter!  He  ripped  out  a  furious  oath,  striking  the 
table  with  his  boot  heel.  Again  and  again  he  had  re- 
solved to  put  the  whole  affair  from  out  his  mind.  Once 
he  had  been  able  to  do  so,  but  of  late  it  was  becoming 
harder  and  harder  with  every  successive  day.  He  had 
only  to  close  his  eyes  to  see  her  as  plain  as  if  she  stood 
before  him ;  he  saw  her  in  a  glory  of  sunlight  that  set  a 
fine  tinted  lustre  of  pale  carnation  and  gold  on  the  silken 
sheen  of  her  white  skin,  her  hair  sparkled  with  it,  her 
thick,  strong  neck,  sloping  to  her  shoulders  with  beauti- 
ful, full  curves,  seemed  to  radiate  the  light;  her  eyes, 
brown,  wide,  innocent  in  expression,  disclosing  the  full 
disc  of  the  pupil  upon  the  slightest  provocation,  flashed 
in  this  sunlight  like  diamonds. 

Annixter  was  all  bewildered.  With  the  exception  of 
the  timid  little  creature  in  the  glove-cleaning  establish- 
ment in  Sacramento,  he  had  had  no  acquaintance  with 
any  woman.  His  world  was  harsh,  crude,  a  world  of 
men  only — men  who  were  to  be  combatted,  opposed — 
his  hand  was  against  nearly  every  one  of  them.  Women 
he  distrusted  with  the  instinctive  distrust  of  the  overgrown 
schoolboy.  Now,  at  length,  a  young  woman  had  come 
into  his  life.  Promptly  he  was  struck  with  discomfiture, 
annoyed  almost  beyond  endurance,  harassed,  bedevilled, 
excited,  made  angry  and  exasperated.  He  was  suspicious 
of  the  woman,  yet  desired  her,  totally  ignorant  of  how  to 


A  Story  of  California  227 

approach  her,  hating  the  sex,  yet  drawn  to  the  individual, 
confusing  the  two  emotions,  sometimes  even  hating  Hilma 
as  a  result  of  this  confusion,  but  at  all  times  disturbed, 
vexed,  irritated  beyond  power  of  expression. 

At  length,  Annixter  cast  his  cigar  from  him  and 
plunged  again  into  the  work  of  the  day.  The  afternoon 
wore  to  evening,  to  the  accompaniment  of  wearying  and 
clamorous  endeavour.  In  some  unexplained  fashion,  the 
labour  of  putting  the  great  barn  in  readiness  for  the  dance 
was  accomplished;  the  last  bolt  of  cambric  was  hung  in 
place  from  the  rafters.  The  last  evergreen  tree  was 
nailed  to  the  joists  of  the  walls;  the  last  lantern  hung, 
the  last  nail  driven  into  the  musicians*  platform.  The 
sun  set.  There  was  a  great  scurry  to  have  supper  and 
dress.  Annixter,  last  of  all  the  other  workers,  left  the 
barn  in  the  dusk  of  twilight.  He  was  alone;  he  had  a 
saw  under  one  arm,  a  bag  of  tools  was  in  his  hand.  He 
was  in  his  shirt  sleeves  and  carried  his  coat  over  his 
shoulder;  a  hammer  was  thrust  into  one  of  his  hip 
pockets.  He  was  in  execrable  temper.  The  day's  work 
had  fagged  him  out.  He  had  not  been  able  to  find  his  hat. 

"  And  the  buckskin  with  sixty  dollars'  worth  of  saddle 
gone,  too,"  he  groaned.  "Oh,  ain't  it  sweet?" 

At  his  house,  Mrs.  Tree  had  set  out  a  cold  supper  for 
him,  the  inevitable  dish  of  prunes  serving  as  dessert. 
After  supper  Annixter  bathed  and  dressed.  He  decided 
at  the  last  moment  to  wear  his  usual  town-going  suit,  a 
sack  suit  of  black,  made  by  a  Bonneville  tailor.  But  his 
hat  was  gone.  There  were  other  hats  he  might  have 
worn,  but  because  this  particular  one  was  lost  he  fretted 
about  it  all  through  his  dressing  and  then  decided  to  have 
one  more  look  around  the  barn  for  it. 

For  over  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  pottered  about  the 
barn,  going  from  stall  to  stall,  rummaging  the  harness 
room  and  feed  room,  all  to  no  purpose.  At  last  he  came 


228  The  Octopus 

out  again  upon  the  main  floor,  definitely  giving  up  the 
search,  looking  about  him  to  see  if  everything  was  in 
order. 

The  festoons  of  Japanese  lanterns  in  and  around  the 
barn  were  not  yet  lighted,  but  some  half-dozen  lamps, 
with  great,  tin  reflectors, that  hung  against  the  walls,  were 
burning  low.  A  dull  half  light  pervaded  the  vast  interior, 
hollow,  echoing,  leaving  the  corners  and  roof  thick  with 
impenetrable  black  shadows.  The  barn  faced  the  west 
and  through  the  open  sliding  doors  was  streaming  a  single 
bright  bar  from  the  after-glow,  incongruous  and  out  of 
all  harmony  with  the  dull  flare  of  the  kerosene  lamps. 

As  Annixter  glanced  about  him,  he  saw  a  figure  step 
briskly  out  of  the  shadows  of  one  corner  of  the  building, 
pause  for  the  fraction  of  one  instant  in  the  bar  of  light, 
then,  at  sight  of  him,  dart  back  again.  There  was  a 
sound  of  hurried  footsteps. 

Annixter,  with  recollections  of  the  stolen  buckskin  in 
his  mind,  cried  out  sharply: 

"Who's  there?" 

There  was  no  answer.  In  a  second  his  pistol  was  in 
his  hand. 

"Who's  there?     Quick,  speak  up  or  I'll  shoot." 

"  No,  no,  no,  don't  shoot/'  cried  an  answering  voice. 
"  Oh,  be  careful.  It's  I— Hilma  Tree." 

Annixter  slid  the  pistol  into  his  pocket  with  a  great 
qualm  of  apprehension.  He  came  forward  and  met 
Hilma  in  the  doorway. 

"  Good  Lord,"  he  murmured,  "  that  sure  did  give  me  a 
start.  HI  had  shot " 

Hilma  stood  abashed  and  confused  before  him.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  white  organdie  frock  of  the  most  rigor- 
ous simplicity  and  wore  neither  flower  nor  ornament. 
The  severity  of  her  dress  made  her  look  even  larger  than 
usual,  and  even  as  it  was  her  eyes  were  on  a  level  with 


A  Story  of  California  229 

Annixter's.  There  was  a  certain  fascination  in  the  con- 
tradiction of  stature  and  character  of  Hilma — a  great 
girl,  half-child  as  yet,  but  tall  as  a  man  for  all  that. 

There  was  a  moment's  awkward  silence,  then  Hilma 
explained : 

"  I — I  came  back  to  look  for  my  hat.  I  thought  I  left 
it  here  this  afternoon." 

"  And  I  was  looking  for  my  hat,"  cried  Annixter. 
"  Funny  enough,  hey  ?  " 

They  laughed  at  this  as  heartily  as  children  might  have 
done.  The  constraint  of  the  situation  was  a  little  relaxed 
and  Annixter,  with  sudden  directness,  glanced  sharply: 
at  the  young  woman  and  demanded : 

"  Well,  Miss  Hilma,  hate  me  as  much  as  ever?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,"  she  answered,  "  I  never  said  I  hated 
you." 

"  Well, — dislike  me,  then ;  I  know  you  said  that." 

"  I — I  disliked  what  you  did — tried  to  do.  It  made 
me  angry  and  it  hurt  me.  I  shouldn't  have  said  what  I 
did  that  time,  but  it  was  your  fault." 

"  You  mean  you  shouldn't  have  said  you  didn't  like 
me  ?  "  asked  Annixter.  "  Why  ?  " 

"Well,  well,— I  don't— I  don't  dislike  anybody,"  ad- 
mitted Hilma. 

"  Then  I  can  take  it  that  you  don't  dislike  me?  Is 
that  it?" 

"  I  don't  dislike  anybody/'  persisted  Hilma. 

"  Well,  I  asked  you  more  than  that,  didn't  I  ?  "  queried 
Annixter  uneasily.  "  I  asked  you  to  like  me,  remember, 
the  other  day.  I'm  asking  you  that  again,  now.  I  want 
you  to  like  me." 

Hilma  lifted  her  eyes  inquiringly  to  his.  In  her  words 
was  an  unmistakable  ring  of  absolute  sincerity.  Inno- 
cently she  inquired : 

"Why?" 


230  The  Octopus 

Annixter  was  struck  speechless.  In  the  face  of  such 
candour,  such  perfect  ingenuousness,  he  was  at  a  loss  for 
any  words. 

«  Well— well,"  he  stammered,  "  well— I  don't  know," 
he  suddenly  burst  out.  "  That  is,"  he  went  on,  groping 
for  his  wits,  "  I  can't  quite  say  why."  The  idea  of  a 
colossal  lie  occurred  to  him,  a  thing  actually  royal. 

"  I  like  to  have  the  people  who  are  around  me  like  me," 
he  declared.  "  I — I  like  to  be  popular,  understand  ? 
Yes,  that's  it,"  he  continued,  more  reassured.  "  I  don't 
like  the  idea  of  any  one  disliking  me.  That's  the  way  I 
am.  It's  my  nature." 

"  Oh,  then,"  returned  Hilma,  "  you  needn't  bother. 
No,  I  don't  dislike  you." 

"  Well,  that's  good,''  declared  Annixter  judicially. 
"  That's  good.  But  hold  on/'  he  interrupted,  "  I'm  for- 
getting. It's  not  enough  to  not  dislike  me.  I  want  you 
to  like  me.  How  about  that?" 

Hilma  paused  for  a  moment,  glancing  vaguely  out  of 
the  doorway  toward  the  lighted  window  of  the  dairy- 
house,  her  head  tilted. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ever  thought  about  that,"  she 
said. 

"  Well,  think  about  it  now,"  insisted  Annixter. 

"  But  I  never  thought  about  liking  anybody  particu- 
larly," she  observed.  "  It's  because  I  like  everybody, 
don't  you  see?" 

"  Well,  you've  got  to  like  some  people  more  than  other 
people,"  hazarded  Annixter,  "  and  I  want  to  be  one  of 
those  '  some  people,'  savvy?  Good  Lord,  I  don't  know 
how  to  say  these  fool  things.  I  talk  like  a  galoot  when  I 
get  talking  to  feemale  girls  and  I  can't  lay  my  tongue  to 
anything  that  sounds  right.  It  isn't  my  nature.  And 
look  here,  I  lied  when  I  said  I  liked  to  have  people  like 
rne — to  be  popular.  Rot!  I  don't  care  a  curse  about 


A  Story  of  California  231 

people's  opinions  of  me.  But  there's  a  few  people  that 
are  more  to  me  than  most  others — that  chap  Presley,  for 
instance — and  those  people  I  do  want  to  have  like  me. 
What  they  think  counts.  Pshaw!  I  know  I've  got 
enemies ;  piles  of  them.  I  could  name  you  half  a  dozen 
men  right  now  that  are  naturally  itching  to  take  a  shot 
at  me.  How  about  this  ranch?  Don't  I  know,  can't  I 
hear  the  men  growling  oaths  under  their  breath  after 
I've  gone  by?  And  in  business  ways,  too,"  he  went  on, 
speaking  half  to  himself,  "  in  Bonneville  and  all  over  the 
county  there's  not  a  man  of  them  wouldn't  howl  for  joy 
if  they  got  a  chance  to  down  Buck  Annixter.  Think  I 
care?  Why,  I  like  it.  I  run  my  ranch  to  suit  myself 
and  I  play  my  game  my  own  way.  I'm  a  '  driver/  I 
know  it,  and  a  '  bully/  too.  Oh,  I  know  what  they  call 
me — '  a  brute  beast,  with  a  twist  in  my  temper  that  would 
rile  up  a  new-born  lamb/  and  I'm  '  crusty '  and  '  pig- 
headed '  and  '  obstinate/  They  say  all  that,  but  they've 
got  to  say,  too,  that  I'm  cleverer  than  any  man- jack  in 
the  running.  There's  nobody  can  get  ahead  of  me."  His 
eyes  snapped.  "  Let  'em  grind  their  teeth.  They  can't 
'  down '  me.  When  I  shut  my  fist  there's  not  one  of 
them  can  open  it.  No,  not  with  a  chisel."  He  turned  to 
Hilma  again.  "  Well,  when  a  man's  hated  as  much  as 
that,  it  stands  to  reason,  don't  it,  Miss  Hilma,  that  the 
few  friends  he  has  got  he  wants  to  keep?  I'm  not  such 
an  entire  swine  to  the  people  that  know  me  best — that 
jackass,  Presley,  for  instance.  I'd  put  my  hand  in  the 
fire  to  do  him  a  real  service.  Sometimes  I  get  kind  of 
lonesome;  wonder  if  you  would  understand?  It's  my 
fault,  but  there's  not  a  horse  about  the  place  that  don't 
lay  his  ears  back  when  I  get  on  him;  there's  not  a  dog 
don't  put  his  tail  between  his  legs  as  soon  as  I  come  near 
him.  The  cayuse  isn't  foaled  yet  here  on  Quien  Sabe  that 
can  throw  me,  nor  the  dog  whelped  that  would  dare  show 


232  The  Octopus 

his  teeth  at  me.  I  kick  that  Irish  setter  every  time  I 
see  him — but  wonder  what  I'd  do,  though,  if  he  didn't 
slink  so  much,  if  he  wagged  his  tail  and  was  glad  to  see 
me?  So  it  all  comes  to  this:  I'd  like  to  have  you — well, 
sort  of  feel  that  I  was  a  good  friend  of  yours  and  like 
me  because  of  it." 

The  flame  in  the  lamp  on  the  wall  in  front  of  Hilma 
stretched  upward  tall  and  thin  and  began  to  smoke.  She 
went  over  to  where  the  lamp  hung  and,  standing  on  tip- 
toe, lowered  the  wick.  As  she  reached  her  hand  up, 
Annixter  noted  how  the  sombre,  lurid  red  of  the  lamp 
made  a  warm  reflection  on  her  smooth,  round  arm. 

"  Do  you  understand  ?  "  he  queried. 

"  Yes,  why,  yes,"  she  answered,  turning  around.  "  It's 
very  good  of  you  to  want  to  be  a  friend  of  mine.  I 
didn't  think  so,  though,  when  you  tried  to  kiss  me.  But 
maybe  it's  all  right  since  you've  explained  things.  You 
see  I'm  different  from  you.  I  like  everybody  to  like  me 
and  I  like  to  like  everybody.  It  makes  one  so  much 
happier.  You  wouldn't  believe  it,  but  you  ought  to  try 
it,  sir,  just  to  see.  It's  so  good  to  be  good  to  people  and 
to  have  people  good  to  you.  And  everybody  has  always 
been  so  good  to  me.  Mamma  and  papa,  of  course,  and 
Billy,  the  stableman,  and  Montalegre,  the  Portugee  fore- 
man, and  the  Chinese  cook,  even,  and  Mr.  Delaney — only 
he  went  away — and  Mrs.  Vacca  and  her  little " 

"  Delaney,  hey  ?  "  demanded  Annixter  abruptly.  "  You 
and  he  were  pretty  good  friends,  were  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered.  "  He  was  just  as  good  to 
me.  Every  day  in  the  summer  time  he  used  to  ride  over 
to  the  Seed  ranch  back  of  the  Mission  and  bring  me  a 
great  armful  of  flowers,  the  prettiest  things,  and  I  used 
to  pretend  to  pay  him  for  them  with  dollars  made  of 
cheese  that  I  cut  out  of  the  cheese  with  a  biscuit  cutter. 
It  was  such  fun.  We  were  the  best  of  friends." 


A  Story  of  California  233 

"  There's  another  lamp  smoking,"  growled  Annixter. 
"  Turn  it  down,  will  you  ? — and  see  that  somebody  sweeps 
this  floor  here.  It's  all  littered  up  with  pine  needles. 
I've  got  a  lot  to  do.  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,  sir." 

Annixter  returned  to  the  ranch  house,  his  teeth 
clenched,  enraged,  his  face  flushed. 

"Ah,"  he  muttered,  "  Delaney,  hey?  Throwing  it  up 
to  me  that  I  fired  him."  His  teeth  gripped  together 
more  fiercely  than  ever.  "  The  best  of  friends,  hey  ?  By 
God,  I'll  have  that  girl  yet.  I'll  show  that  cow-puncher. 
Ain't  I  her  employer,  her  boss?  I'll  show  her — and 
Delaney,  too.  It  would  be  easy  enough — and  then  De- 
laney can  have  her — if  he  wants  her — after  me." 

An  evil  light  flashing  from  under  his  scowl,  spread 
over  his  face.  The  male  instincts  of  possession,  unrea- 
soned, treacherous,  oblique,  came  twisting  to  the  surface. 
All  the  lower  nature  of  the  man,  ignorant  of  women, 
racked  at  one  and  the  same  time  with  enmity  and  desire, 
roused  itself  like  a  hideous  and  abominable  beast.  And 
at  the  same  moment,  Hilma  returned  to  her  house,  hum- 
ming to  herself  as  she  walked,  her  white  dress  glowing 
with  a  shimmer  of  faint  saffron  light  in  the  last  ray  of 
the  after-glow. 

A  little  after  half-past  seven,  the  first  carry-all,  bearing 
the  druggist  of  Bonneville  and  his  women-folk,  arrived 
in  front  of  the  new  barn.  Immediately  afterward  an 
express  wagon  loaded  down  with  a  swarming  family  of 
Spanish-Mexicans,  gorgeous  in  red  and  yellow  colours, 
followed.  Billy,  the  stableman,  and  his  assistant  took 
charge  of  the  teams,  unchecking  the  horses  and  hitching 
them  to  a  fence  back  of  the  barn.  Then  Caraher,  the 
saloon-keeper,  in  "  derby  "  hat,  "  Prince  Albert "  coat, 
pointed  yellow  shoes  and  inevitable  red  necktie,  drove 
into  the  yard  on  his  buckboard,  the  delayed  box  of 


234  The  Octopus 

lemons  under  the  seat.  It  looked  as  if  the  whole  array 
of  invited  guests  was  to  arrive  in  one  unbroken  proces- 
sion, but  for  a  long  half-hour  nobody  else  appeared. 
Annixter  and  Caraher  withdrew  to  the  harness  room  and 
promptly  involved  themselves  in  a  wrangle  as  to  the 
make-up  of  the  famous  punch.  From  time  to  time  their 
voices  could  be  heard  uplifted  in  clamorous  argument. 

"  Two  quarts  and  a  half  and  a  cupful  of  chartreuse." 

"  Rot,  rot,  I  know  better.  Champagne  straight  and  a 
dash  of  brandy." 

The  druggist's  wife  and  sister  retired  to  the  feed  room, 
where  a  bureau  with  a  swinging  mirror  had  been  placed 
for  the  convenience  of  the  women.  The  druggist  stood 
awkwardly  outside  the  door  of  the  feed  room,  his  coat 
collar  turned  up  against  the  draughts  that  drifted  through 
the  barn,  his  face  troubled,  debating  anxiously  as  to  the 
propriety  of  putting  on  his  gloves.  The  Spanish-Mexi- 
can family,  a  father,  mother  and  five  children  and  sister- 
in-law,  sat  rigid  on  the  edges  of  the  hired  chairs,  silent, 
constrained,  their  eyes  lowered,  their  elbows  in  at  their 
sides,  glancing  furtively  from  under  their  eyebrows  at 
the  decorations  or  watching  with  intense  absorption 
young  Vacca,  son  of  one  of  the  division  superintendents, 
who  wore  a  checked  coat  and  white  thread  gloves  and 
who  paced  up  and  down  the  length  of  the  barn,  frowning, 
very  important,  whittling  a  wax  candle  over  the  floor  to 
make  it  slippery  for  dancing. 

The  musicians  arrived,  the  City  Band  of  Bonneville — 
Annixter  having  managed  to  offend  the  leader  of  the 
"  Dirigo "  Club  orchestra,  at  the  very  last  moment,  to 
such  a  point  that  he  had  refused  his  services.  These 
members  of  the  City  Band  repaired  at  once  to  their  plat- 
form in  the  corner.  At  every  instant  they  laughed  up- 
roariously among  themselves,  joshing  one  of  their  num- 
ber, a  Frenchman,  whom  they  called  "  Skeezicks."  Their 


A  Story  of  California  235 

hilarity  reverberated  in  a  hollow,  metallic  roll  among  the 
rafters  overhead.  The  druggist  observed  to  young 
Vacca  as  he  passed  by  that  he  thought  them  pretty  fresh, 
just  the  same. 

"  I'm  busy,  I'm  very  busy,"  returned  the  young  man, 
continuing  on  his  way,  still  frowning  and  paring  the 
stump  of  candle. 

"  Two  quarts  'n'  a  half.     Two  quarts  'n'  a  half." 

"  Ah,  yes,  in  a  way,  that's  so ;  and  then,  again,  in  a  way, 
it  isn't.  I  know  better." 

All  along  one  side  of  the  barn  were  a  row  of  stalls, 
fourteen  of  them,  clean  as  yet,  redolent  of  new  cut  wood, 
the  sawdust  still  in  the  cracks  of  the  flooring.  Deliber- 
ately the  druggist  went  from  one  to  the  other,  pausing 
contemplatively  before  each.  He  returned  down  the  line 
and  again  took  up  his  position  by  the  door  of  the  feed 
room,  nodding  his  head  judicially,  as  if  satisfied.  He 
decided  to  put  on  his  gloves. 

By  now  it  was  quite  dark.  Outside,  between  the  barn 
and  the  ranch  houses  one  could  see  a  group  of  men  on 
step-ladders  lighting  the  festoons  of  Japanese  lanterns. 
In  the  darkness,  only  their  faces  appeared  here  and  there, 
high  above  the  ground,  seen  in  a  haze  of  red,  strange, 
grotesque.  Gradually  as  the  multitude  of  lanterns  were 
lit,  the  light  spread.  The  grass  underfoot  looked  like 
green  excelsior.  Another  group  of  men  invaded  the 
barn  itself,  lighting  the  lamps  and  lanterns  there.  Soon 
the  whole  place  was  gleaming  with  points  of  light. 
Young  Vacca,  who  had  disappeared,  returned  with  his 
pockets  full  of  wax  candles.  He  resumed  his  whittling, 
refusing  to  answer  any  questions,  vociferating  that  he 
was  busy. 

Outside  there  was  a  sound  of  hoofs  and  voices.  More 
guests  had  arrived.  The  druggist,  seized  with  confusion, 
terrified  lest  he  had  put  on  his  gloves  too  soon,  thrust  his 


236  The  Octopus 

hands  into  his  pockets.  It  was  Cutter,  Magnus  Derrick's 
division  superintendent,  who  came,  bringing  his  wife  and 
her  two  girl  cousins.  They  had  come  fifteen  miles  by 
the  trail  from  the  far  distant  division  house  on  "  Four  " 
of  Los  Muertos  and  had  ridden  on  horseback  instead  of 
driving.  Mrs.  Cutter  could  be  heard  declaring  that  she 
was  nearly  dead  and  felt  more  like  going  to  bed  than 
dancing.  The  two  girl  cousins,  in  dresses  of  dotted 
Swiss  over  blue  sateen,  were  doing  their  utmost  to  pacify 
her.  She  could  be  heard  protesting  from  moment  to 
moment.  One  distinguished  the  phrases  "  straight  to  my 
bed,"  "  back  nearly  broken  in  two,"  "  never  wanted  to 
come  in  the  first  place."  The  druggist,  observing  Cut- 
ter take  a  pair  of  gloves  from  Mrs.  Cutter's  reticule, 
drew  his  hands  from  his  pockets. 

But  abruptly  there  was  an  interruption.  In  the  musi- 
cians' corner  a  scuffle  broke  out.  A  chair  was  over- 
turned. There  was  a  noise  of  imprecations  mingled 
with  shouts  of  derision.  Skeezicks,  the  Frenchman,  had 
turned  upon  the  joshers. 

"  Ah,  no,"  he  was  heard  to  exclaim,  "  at  the  end  of  the 
end  it  is  too  much.  Kind  of  a  bad  canary — we  will  go  to 
see  about  that.  Aha,  let  him  close  up  his  face  before  I 
demolish  it  with  a  good  stroke  of  the  fist." 

The  men  who  were  lighting  the  lanterns  were  obliged 
to  intervene  before  he  could  be  placated. 

Hooven  and  his  wife  and  daughters  arrived.  Minna 
was  carrying  little  Hilda,  already  asleep,  in  her  arms. 
Minna  looked  very  pretty,  striking  even,  with  her  black 
hair,  pale  face,  very  red  lips  and  greenish-blue  eyes. 
She  was  dressed  in  what  had  been  Mrs.  Hooven's  wed- 
ding gown,  a  cheap  affair  of  "  farmer's  satin."  Mrs. 
Hooven  had  pendent  earrings  of  imitation  jet  in  her 
ears.  Hooven  was  wearing  an  old  frock  coat  of  Magnus 
Derrick's,  the  sleeves  too  long,  the  shoulders  absurdly  too 


A  Story  of  California  237 

wide.  He  and  Cutter  at  once  entered  into  an  excited 
conversation  as  to  the  ownership  of  a  certain  steer. 

"  Why,  the  brand— 

"Ach,  Gott,  der  brendt,"  Hooven  clasped  his  head, 
"ach,  der  brendt,  dot  maks  me  laugh  some  laughs. 
Dot's  goot — der  brendt — doand  I  see  um — shoor  der 
boole  mit  der  bleck  star  bei  der  vore-head  in  der  middle 
oaf.  Any  someones  you  esk  tell  you  dot  is  mein  boole. 
You  esk  any  someones.  Der  brendt?  To  hell  mit  der 
brendt.  You  aindt  got  some  memorie  aboudt  does  ting: 
I  guess  nodt" 

"  Please  step  aside,  gentlemen,"  said  young  Vacca, 
who  was  still  making  the  rounds  of  the  floor. 

Hooven  whirled  about.  "  Eh  ?  What  den,"  he  ex- 
claimed, still  excited,  willing  to  be  angry  at  any  one  for 
the  moment.  "  Doand  you  push  soh,  you.  I  tink  ber- 
hapz  you  doand  own  dose  barn,  hey  ?  " 

"  I'm  busy,  I'm  very  busy."  The  young  man  pushed 
by  with  grave  preoccupation. 

"  Two  quarts  'n'  a  half.     Two  quarts  'n'  a  half." 

"  I  know  better.     That's  all  rot." 

But  the  barn  was  filling  up  rapidly.  At  every  mo- 
ment there  was  a  rattle  of  a  newly  arrived  vehicle  from 
outside.  Guest  after  guest  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
singly  or  in  couples,  or  in  families,  or  in  garrulous 
parties  of  five  and  six.  Now  it  was  Phelps  and  his 
mother  from  Los  Muertos,  now  a  foreman  from  Broder- 
son's  with  his  family,  now  a  gayly  apparelled  clerk  from 
a  Bonneville  store,  solitary  and  bewildered,  looking  for 
a  place  to  put  his  hat,  now  a  couple  of  Spanish-Mexican 
girls  from  Guadalajara  with  coquettish  effects  of  black 
and  yellow  about  their  dress,  now  a  group  of  Osterman's 
tenants,  Portuguese,  swarthy,  with  plastered  hair  and 
curled  mustaches,  redolent  of  cheap  perfumes.  Sarria 
arrived,  his  smooth,  shiny  face  glistening  with  perspira- 


238  The  Octopus 

tion.  He  wore  a  new  cassock  and  carried  his  broad- 
brimmed  hat  under  his  arm.  His  appearance  made  quite 
a  stir.  He  passed  from  group  to  group,  urbane,  affable, 
shaking  hands  right  and  left ;  he  assumed  a  set  smile  of 
amiability  which  never  left  his  face  the  whole  evening. 

But  abruptly  there  was  a  veritable  sensation.  From 
out  the  little  crowd  that  persistently  huddled  about  the 
doorway  came  Osterman.  He  wore  a  dress-suit  with  a 
white  waistcoat  and  patent  leather  pumps — what  a  won- 
•der!  A  little  qualm  of  excitement  spread  around  the 
barn.  One  exchanged  nudges  of  the  elbow  with  one's 
neighbour,  whispering  earnestly  behind  the  hand.  What 
astonishing  clothes !  Catch  on  to  the  coat-tails !  It  was 
a  masquerade  costume,  maybe;  that  goat  Osterman  was 
such  a  josher,  one  never  could  tell  what  he  would  do 
next. 

The  musicians  began  to  tune  up.  From  their  corner 
came  a  medley  of  mellow  sounds,  the  subdued  chirps  of 
the  violins,  the  dull  bourdon  of  the  bass  viol,  the  liquid 
gurgling  of  the  flageolet  and  the  deep-toned  snarl  of  the 
big  horn,  with  now  and  then  a  rasping  stridulating  of  the 
snare  drum.  A  sense  of  gayety  began  to  spread  through- 
out the  assembly.  At  every  moment  the  crowd  increased. 
The  aroma  of  new-sawn  timber  and  sawdust  began  to  be 
mingled  with  the  feminine  odour  of  sachet  and  flowers. 
There  was  a  babel  of  talk  in  the  air — male  baritone  and 
soprano  chatter — varied  by  an  occasional  note  of  laugh- 
ter and  the  swish  of  stiffly  starched  petticoats.  On  the 
row  of  chairs  that  went  around  three  sides  of  the  wall 
groups  began  to  settle  themselves.  For  a  long  time  the 
guests  huddled  close  to  the  doorway;  the  lower  end  of 
the  floor  was  crowded,  the  upper  end  deserted ;  but  by  de- 
grees the  lines  of  white  muslin  and  pink  and  blue  sateen 
extended,  dotted  with  the  darker  figures  of  men  in  black 
suits.  The  conversation  grew  louder  as  the  timidity  of 


A  Story  of  California  239 

the  early  moments  wore  off.  Groups  at  a  distance  called 
back  and  forth;  conversations  were  carried  on  at  top 
voice.  Once,  even  a  whole  party  hurried  across  the 
floor  from  one  side  of  the  barn  to  the  other. 

Annixter  emerged  from  the  harness  room,  his  face  red 
with  wrangling.  He  took  a  position  to  the  right  of  the 
door,  shaking  hands  with  newcomers,  inviting  them  over 
and  over  again  to  cut  loose  and  whoop  it  along.  Into 
the  ears  of  his  more  intimate  male  acquaintances  he 
dropped  a  word  as  to  punch  and  cigars  in  the  harness 
room  later  on,  winking  with  vast  intelligence. 

Ranchers  from  remoter  parts  of  the  country  appeared : 
Garnett,  from  the  Ruby  rancho,  Keast,  from  the  ranch 
of  the  same  name,  Gethings,  of  the  San  Pablo,  Chattern, 
of  the  Bonanza,  and  others  and  still  others,  a  score  of 
them — elderly  men,  for  the  most  part,  bearded,  slow  of 
speech,  deliberate,  dressed  in  broadcloth.  Old  Broder- 
son,  who  entered  with  his  wife  on  his  arm,  fell  in  with 
this  type,  and  with  them  came  a  certain  Dabney,  of 
whom  nothing  but  his  name  was  known,  a  silent  old 
man,  who  made  no  friends,  whom  nobody  knew  or  spoke 
to,  who  was  seen  only  upon  such  occasions  as  this,  coming 
from  no  one  knew  where,  going,  no  one  cared  to  inquire 
whither. 

Between  eight  and  half-past,  Magnus  Derrick  and  his 
family  were  seen.  Magnus's  entry  caused  no  little  im- 
pression. Some  said :  "  There's  the  Governor,"  and  called 
their  companions'  attention  to  the  thin,  erect  figure,  com- 
manding, imposing,  dominating  all  in  his  immediate 
neighbourhood.  Harran  came  with  him,  wearing  a  cut- 
away suit  of  black.  He  was  undeniably  handsome,  young 
and  fresh  looking,  his  cheeks  highly  coloured,  quite  the 
finest  looking  of  all  the  younger  men ;  blond,  strong, 
with  that  certain  courtliness  of  manner  that  had  always 
made  him  liked.  He  took  his  mother  upon  his  arm 


240  The  Octopus 

and  conducted  her  to  a  seat  by  the  side  of  Mrs. 
Broderson. 

Annie  Derrick  was  very  pretty  that  evening.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  grey  silk  gown  with  a  collar  of  pink 
velvet.  Her  light  brown  hair  that  yet  retained  so  much 
of  its  brightness  was  transfixed  by  a  high,  shell  comb, 
very  Spanish.  But  the  look  of  uneasiness  in  her  large 
eyes — the  eyes  of  a  young  girl — was  deepening  every 
day.  The  expression  of  innocence  and  inquiry  which 
they  so  easily  assumed,  was  disturbed  by  a  faint  sugges- 
tion of  aversion,  almost  of  terror.  She  settled  herself  in 
her  place,  in  the  corner  of  the  hall,  in  the  rear  rank  of 
chairs,  a  little  frightened  by  the  glare  of  lights,  the  hum 
of  talk  and  the  shifting  crowd,  glad  to  be  out  of  the 
way,  to  attract  no  attention,  willing  to  obliterate  herself. 

All  at  once  Annixter,  who  had  just  shaken  hands  with 
Dyke,  his  mother  and  the  little  tad,  moved  abruptly  in 
his  place,  drawing  in  his  breath  sharply.  The  crowd 
around  the  great,  wide-open  main  door  of  the  barn  had 
somewhat  thinned  out  and  in  the  few  groups  that  still 
remained  there  he  had  suddenly  recognised  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Tree  and  Hilma,  making  their  way  towards  some 
empty  seats  near  the  entrance  of  the  feed  room. 

In  the  dusky  light  of  the  barn  earlier  in  the  evening, 
Annixter  had  not  been  able  to  see  Hilma  plainly.  Now, 
however,  as  she  passed  before  his  eyes  in  the  glittering 
radiance  of  the  lamps  and  lanterns,  he  caught  his  breath 
in  astonishment.  Never  had  she  appeared  more  beautiful 
in  his  eyes.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that  this  was  the 
same  girl  whom  he  saw  every  day  in  and  around  the 
ranch  house  and  dairy,  the  girl  of  simple  calico  frocks 
and  plain  shirt  waists,  who  brought  him  his  dinner,  who 
made  up  his  bed.  Now  he  could  not  take  his  eyes  from 
her.  Hilma,  for  the  first  time,  was  wearing  her  hair 
done  high  upon  her  head.  The  thick,  sweet-smelling 


A  Story  of  California  241 

masses,  bitumen  brown  in  the  shadows,  corruscated  like 
golden  filaments  in  the  light.  Her  organdie  frock  was 
long,  longer  than  any  she  had  yet  worn.  It  left  a  little 
of  her  neck  and  breast  bare  and  all  of  her  arm. 

Annixter  muttered  an  exclamation.  Such  arms  !  How 
did  she  manage  to  keep  them  hid  on  ordinary  occasions. 
Big  at  the  shoulder,  tapering  with  delicious  modulations 
to  the  elbow  and  wrist,  overlaid  with  a  delicate,  gleaming 
lustre.  As  often  as  she  turned  her  head  the  movement 
sent  a  slow  undulation  over  her  neck  and  shoulders,  the 
pale  amber-tinted  shadows  under  her  chin,  coming  and 
going  over  the  creamy  whiteness  of  the  skin  like  the 
changing  moire  of  silk.  The  pretty  rose  colour  of  her 
cheek  had  deepened  to  a  pale  carnation.  Annixter,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  him,  stood  watching. 

In  a  few  moments  Hilma  was  surrounded  by  a  group 
of  young  men,  clamouring  for  dances.  They  came  from 
all  corners  of  the  barn,  leaving  the  other  girls  precipi- 
tately, almost  rudely.  There  could  be  little  doubt  as  to 
who  was  to  be  the  belle  of  the  occasion.  Hilma's  little 
triumph  was  immediate,  complete.  Annixter  could  hear 
her  voice  from  time  to  time,  its  usual  velvety  huskiness 
vibrating  to  a  note  of  exuberant  gayety. 

All  at  once  the  orchestra  swung  off  into  a  march — the 
Grand  March.  There  was  a  great  rush  to  secure 
"  partners."  Young  Vacca,  still  going  the  rounds,  was 
pushed  to  one  side.  The  gayly  apparelled  clerk  from  the 
Bonneville  store  lost  his  head  in  the  confusion.  He  could 
not  find  his  "  partner."  He  roamed  wildly  about  the 
barn,  bewildered,  his  eyes  rolling.  He  resolved  to  pre- 
pare an  elaborate  programme  card  on  the  back  of  an  old 
envelope.  Rapidly  the  line  was  formed,  Hilma  and  Har- 
ran  Derrick  in  the  lead,  Annixter  having  obstinately  re- 
fused to  engage  in  either  march,  set  or  dance  the  whole 
evening.  Soon  the  confused  shuffling  of  feet  settled  to  a 


242  The  Octopus 

measured  cadence;  the  orchestra  blared  and  wailed,  the 
snare  drum,  rolling  at  exact  intervals,  the  cornet  mark- 
ing the  time.  It  was  half-past  eight  o'clock. 

Annixter  drew  a  long  breath : 

"  Good,"  he  muttered,  "  the  thing  is  under  way  at  last." 

Singularly  enough,  Osterman  also  refused  to  dance. 
The  week  before  he  had  returned  from  Los  Angeles, 
bursting  with  the  importance  of  his  mission.  He  had 
been  successful.  He  had  Disbrow  "  in  his  pocket."  He 
was  impatient  to  pose  before  the  others  of  the  committee 
as  a  skilful  political  agent,  a  manipulator.  He  forgot 
his  attitude  of  the  early  part  of  the  evening  when  he  had 
drawn  attention  to  himself  with  his  wonderful  clothes. 
Now  his  comic  actor's  face,  with  its  brownish-red  cheeks, 
protuberant  ears  and  horizontal  slit  of  a  mouth,  was 
overcast  with  gravity.  His  bald  forehead  was  seamed 
with  the  wrinkles  of  responsibility.  He  drew  Annixter 
into  one  of  the  empty  stalls  and  began  an  elaborate  ex- 
planation, glib,  voluble,  interminable,  going  over  again 
in  detail  what  he  had  reported  to  the  committee  in  outline. 

*  I  managed  —  I  schemed  —  I  kept  dark  —  I  lay 
low " 

But  Annixter  refused  to  listen. 

"  Oh,  rot  your  schemes.  There's  a  punch  in  the  har- 
ness room  that  will  make  the  hair  grow  on  the  top  of  your 
head  in  the  place  where  the  hair  ought  to  grow.  Come 
on,  we'll  round  up  some  of  the  boys  and  walk  into  it." 

They  edged  their  way  around  the  hall  outside  "  The 
Grand  March,"  toward  the  harness  room,  picking  up  on 
their  way  Caraher,  Dyke,  Hooven  and  old  Broderson. 
Once  in  the  harness  room,  Annixter  shot  the  bolt. 

"  That  affair  outside,"  he  observed,  "  will  take  care  of 
itself,  but  here's  a  little  orphan  child  that  gets  lonesome 
without  company." 

Annixter  began  ladling  the  punch,  filling  the  glasses. 


A  Story  of  California  243 

Osterman  proposed  a  toast  to  Quien  Sabe  and  the 
Biggest  Barn.  Their  elbows  crooked  in  silence.  Old 
Broderson  set  down  his  glass,  wiping  his  long  beard  and 
remarking : 

"  That — that  certainly  is  very — very  agreeable.  I  re- 
member a  punch  I  drank  on  Christmas  day  in  '83,  or  no, 
it  was  '84 — anyhow,  that  punch — it  was  in  Ukiah — 'twas 
'83 — "  He  wandered  on  aimlessly,  unable  to  stop  his 
flow  of  speech,  losing  himself  in  details,  involving  his 
talk  in  a  hopeless  maze  of  trivialities  to  which  nobody 
paid  any  attention. 

"  I  don't  drink  myself/'  observed  Dyke,  "  but  just  a 
taste  of  that  with  a  lot  of  water  wouldn't  be  bad  for  the 
little  tad.  She'd  think  it  was  lemonade."  He  was  about 
to  mix  a  glass  for  Sidney,  but  thought  better  of  it  at  the 
last  moment. 

"  It's  the  chartreuse  that's  lacking,"  commented  Cara- 
her,  lowering  at  Annixter.  The  other  flared  up  on  the 
instant. 

"  Rot,  rot.  I  know  better.  In  some  punches  it  goes ; 
and  then,  again,  in  others  it  don't." 

But  it  was  left  to  Hooven  to  launch  the  successful 
phrase : 

"  Gesundheit"  he  exclaimed,  holding  out  his  second 
glass.  After  drinking,  he  replaced  it  on  the  table  with  a 
long  breath.  "  Ach  Gott !  "  he  cried,  "  dat  poonsch,  say 
I  tink  dot  poonsch  mek  some  demn  goot  vertilizer,  hey  ?  " 

Fertiliser !     The  others  roared  with  laughter. 

"  Good  eye,  Bismarck,"  commented  Annixter.  The 
name  had  a  great  success.  Thereafter  throughout  the 
evening  the  punch  was  invariably  spoken  of  as  the  "  Fer- 
tiliser." Osterman,  having  spilt  the  bottom  of  a  glassful 
on  the  floor,  pretended  that  he  saw  shoots  of  grain  com- 
ing up  on  the  spot.  Suddenly  he  turned  upon  old 
Broderson. 


544  The  Octopus 

"  I'm  bald,  ain't  I  ?  Want  to  know  how  I  lost  my 
hair?  Promise  you  won't  ask  a  single  other  question 
and  I'll  tell  you.  Promise  your  word  of  honour." 

"  Eh  ?  What — wh — I — I  don't  understand.  Your 
hair?  Yes,  I'll  promise.  How  did  you  lose  it?" 

"  It  was  bit  off/' 

The  other  gazed  at  him  stupefied;  his  jaw  dropped. 
The  company  shouted,  and  old  Broderson,  believing  he 
had  somehow  accomplished  a  witticism,  chuckled  in  his 
beard,  wagging  his  head.  But  suddenly  he  fell  grave, 
struck  with  an  idea.  He  demanded : 

"  Yes— I  know— but— but  what  bit  it  off  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  vociferated  Osterman,  "  that's  just  what  you 
promised  not  to  ask." 

The  company  doubled  up  with  hilarity.  Caraher 
leaned  against  the  door,  holding  his  sides,  but  Hooven, 
all  abroad,  unable  to  follow,  gazed  from  face  to  face  with 
a  vacant  grin,  thinking  it  was  still  a  question  of  his 
famous  phrase. 

"Vertilizer,  hey?  Dots  some  fine  joke,  hey?  You 
bedt." 

What  with  the  noise  of  their  talk  and  laughter,  it  was 
some  time  before  Dyke,  first  of  all,  heard  a  persistent 
knocking  on  the  bolted  door.  He  called  Annixter's  at- 
tention to  the  sound.  Cursing  the  intruder,  Annixter 
unbolted  and  opened  the  door.  But  at  once  his  manner 
changed. 

"  Hello.    It's  Presley.    Come  in,  come  in,  Pres." 

There  was  a  shout  of  welcome  from  the  others.  A 
spirit  of  effusive  cordiality  had  begun  to  dominate  the 
gathering.  Annixter  caught  sight  of  Vanamee  back  of 
Presley,  and  waiving  for  the  moment  the  distinction  of 
employer  and  employee,  insisted  that  both  the  friends 
should  come  in. 

"Any  friend  of  Pres  is  my  friend,"  he  declared. 


A  Story  of  California  245 

But  when  the  two  had  entered  and  had  exchanged 
greetings,  Presley  drew  Annixter  aside. 

"  Vanamee  and  I  have  just  come  from  Bonneville,"  he 
explained.  "  We  saw  Delaney  there.  He's  got  the  buck- 
skin, and  he's  full  of  bad  whiskey  and  dago-red.  You 
should  see  him;  he's  wearing  all  his  cow-punching  out- 
fit, hair  trousers,  sombrero,  spurs  and  all  the  rest  of  it, 
and  he  has  strapped  himself  to  a  big  revolver.  He  says 
he  wasn't  invited  to  your  barn  dance  but  that  he's  coming 
over  to  shoot  up  the  place.  He  says  you  promised  to 
show  him  off  Quien  Sabe  at  the  toe  of  your  boot  and 
that  he's  going  to  give  you  the  chance  to-night ! " 

"  Ah,"  commented  Annixter,  nodding  his  head,  "  he  is, 
is  he?" 

Presley  was  disappointed.  Knowing  Annixter's  iras- 
cibility, he  had  expected  to  produce  a  more  dramatic 
effect.  He  began  to  explain  the  danger  of  the  business. 
Delaney  had  once  knifed  a  greaser  in  the  Panamint 
country.  He  was  known  as  a  "  bad  "  man.  But  Annix- 
ter refused  to  be  drawn. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  "  that's  all  right.  Don't  tell  any- 
body else.  You  might  scare  the  girls  off.  Get  in  and 
drink." 

Outside  the  dancing  was  by  this  time  in  full  swing. 
The  orchestra  was  playing  a  polka.  Young  Vacca,  now 
at  his  fiftieth  wax  candle,  had  brought  the  floor  to  the 
slippery  surface  of  glass.  The  druggist  was  dancing 
with  one  of  the  Spanish-Mexican  girls  with  the  solemnity 
of  an  automaton,  turning  about  and  about,  always  in  the 
same  direction,  his  eyes  glassy,  his  teeth  set.  Hilma  Tree 
was  dancing  for  the  second  time  with  Harran  Derrick. 
She  danced  with  infinite  grace.  Her  cheeks  were  bright 
red,  her  eyes  half-closed,  and  through  her  parted  lips  she 
drew  from  time  to  time  a  long,  tremulous  breath  of  pure 
delight.  The  music,  the  weaving  colours,  the  heat  of  the 


246  The  Octopus 

air,  by  now  a  little  oppressive,  the  monotony  of  repeated 
sensation,  even  the  pain  of  physical  fatigue  had  exalted 
all  her  senses.  She  was  in  a  dreamy  lethargy  of  happi- 
ness. It  was  her  "first  ball."  She  could  have  danced 
without  stopping  until  morning.  Minna  Hooven  and  Cut- 
ter were  "  promenading."  Mrs.  Hooven,  with  little  Hilda 
already  asleep  on  her  knees,  never  took  her  eyes  from 
her  daughter's  gown.  As  often  as  Minna  passed  near 
her  she  vented  an  energetic  "  pst !  pst !  "  The  metal  tip 
of  a  white  draw  string  was  showing  from  underneath  the 
waist  of  Minna's  dress.  Mrs.  Hooven  was  on  the  point 
of  tears. 

The  solitary  gayly  apparelled  clerk  from  Bonneville 
was  in  a  fever  of  agitation.  He  had  lost  his  elaborate 
programme  card.  Bewildered,  beside  himself  with  trepi- 
dation, he  hurried  about  the  room,  jostled  by  the  dancing 
couples,  tripping  over  the  feet  of  those  who  were  seated ; 
he  peered  distressfully  under  the  chairs  and  about  the 
floor,  asking  anxious  questions. 

Magnus  Derrick,  the  centre  of  a  listening  circle  of 
ranchers — Garnett  from  the  Ruby  rancho,  Keast  from 
the  ranch  of  the  same  name,  Gethings  and  Chattern  of 
the  San  Pablo  and  Bonanza — stood  near  the  great  open 
doorway  of  the  barn,  discussing  the  possibility  of  a 
shortage  in  the  world's  wheat  crop  for  the  next  year. 

Abruptly  the  orchestra  ceased  playing  with  a  roll  of 
the  snare  drum,  a  flourish  of  the  cornet  and  a  prolonged 
growl  of  the  bass  viol.  The  dance  broke  up,  the  couples 
hurrying  to  their  seats,  leaving  the  gayly  apparelled  clerk 
suddenly  isolated  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  rolling  his 
eyes.  The  druggist  released  the  Spanish-Mexican  girl 
with  mechanical  precision  out  amidst  the  crowd  of 
dancers.  He  bowed,  dropping  his  chin  upon  his  cravat ; 
throughout  the  dance  neither  had  hazarded  a  word.  The 
girl  found  her  way  alone  to  a  chair,  but  the  druggist. 


A  Story  of  California  247 

sick  from  continually  revolving  in  the  same  direction, 
walked  unsteadily  toward  the  wall.  All  at  once  the  barn 
reeled  around  him ;  he  fell  down.  There  was  a  great 
laugh,  but  he  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  disappeared 
abruptly  out  into  the  night  through  the  doorway  of  the 
barn,  deathly  pale,  his  hand  upon  his  stomach. 

Dabney,  the  old  man  whom  nobody  knew,  approached 
the  group  of  ranchers  around  Magnus  Derrick  and  stood, 
a  little  removed,  listening  gravely  to  what  the  governor 
was  saying,  his  chin  sunk  in  his  collar,  silent,  offering 
no  opinions. 

But  the  leader  of  the  orchestra,  with  a  great  gesture  of 
his  violin  bow,  cried  out: 

"  All  take  partners  for  the  lancers  and  promenade 
around  the  hall !  " 

However,  there  was  a  delay.  A  little  crowd  formed 
around  the  musicians'  platform ;  voices  were  raised ;  there 
was  a  commotion.  Skeezicks,  who  played  the  big  horn, 
accused  the  cornet  and  the  snare-drum  of  stealing  his 
cold  lunch.  At  intervals  he  could  be  heard  expostu- 
lating : 

"  Ah,  no !  at  the  end  of  the  end !  Render  me  the 
sausages,  you,  or  less  I  break  your  throat !  Aha !  I  know 
you.  You  are  going  to  play  me  there  a  bad  farce.  My 
sausages  and  the  pork  sandwich,  else  I  go  away  from 
this  place !  " 

He  made  an  exaggerated  show  of  replacing  his  big 
horn  in  its  case,  but  the  by-standers  raised  a  great  pro- 
test. The  sandwiches  and  one  sausage  were  produced; 
the  other  had  disappeared.  In  the  end  Skeezichs  allowed 
himself  to  be  appeased.  The  dance  was  resumed. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  gathering  in  the  harness  room 
was  considerably  reinforced.  It  was  the  corner  of  the 
barn  toward  which  the  male  guests  naturally  gravitated. 
Harran  Derrick,  who  only  cared  to  dance  with  Hilma 


248  The  Octopus 

Tree,  was  admitted.  Garnett  from  the  Ruby  rancho  and 
Gethings  from  the  San  Pablo,  came  in  a  little  afterwards. 
A  fourth  bowl  of  punch  was  mixed,  Annixter  and  Car- 
aher  clamouring  into  each  other's  face  as  to  its  ingre- 
dients. Cigars  were  lighted.  Soon  the  air  of  the  room 
became  blue  with  an  acrid  haze  of  smoke.  It  was  very 
warm.  Ranged  in  their  chairs  around  the  side  of  the 
room,  the  guests  emptied  glass  after  glass. 

Vanamee  alone  refused  to  drink.  He  sat  a  little  to 
one  side,  disassociating  himself  from  what  was  going 
forward,  watching  the  others  calmly,  a  little  contemptu- 
ously, a  cigarette  in  his  ringers. 

Hooven,  after  drinking  his  third  glass,  however,  was 
afflicted  with  a  great  sadness;  his  breast  heaved  with 
immense  sighs.  He  asserted  that  he  was  "  obbressed ;  " 
Cutter  had  taken  his  steer.  He  retired  to  a  corner  and 
seated  himself  in  a  heap  on  his  chair,  his  heels  on  the 
rungs,  wiping  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  refusing  to  be  com- 
forted. 

Old  Broderson  startled  Annixter,  who  sat  next  to  him, 
out  of  all  measure  by  suddenly  winking  at  him  with 
infinite  craftiness. 

"  When  I  was  a  lad  in  Ukiah,"  he  whispered  hoarsely, 
*"  I  was  a  devil  of  a  fellow  with  the  girls ;  but  Lordy !  " 
he  nudged  him  slyly,  "  I  wouldn't  have  it  known ! " 

Of  those  who  were  drinking,  Annixter  alone  retained 
all  his  wits.  Though  keeping  pace  with  the  others,  glass 
for  glass,  the  punch  left  him  solid  upon  his  feet,  clear- 
headed. The  tough,  cross-grained  fibre  of  him  seemed 
proof  against  alcohol.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  been 
drunk.  He  prided  himself  upon  his  power  of  resistance. 
It  was  his  nature. 

"  Say !  "  exclaimed  old  Broderson,  gravely  addressing 
the  company,  pulling  at  his  beard  uneasily — "  say !  I — I 
— listen !  I'm  a  devil  of  a  fellow  with  the  girls."  He 


A  Story  of  California  249 

wagged  his  head  doggedly,  shutting  his  eyes  in  a  know- 
ing fashion.  "  Yes,  sir,  I  am.  There  was  a  young  lady 
in  Ukiah — that  was  when  I  was  a  lad  of  seventeen.  We 
used  to  meet  in  the  cemetery  in  the  afternoons.  I  was 
to  go  away  to  school  at  Sacramento,  and  the  afternoon 
I  left  we  met  in  the  cemetery  and  we  stayed  so  long  I 
almost  missed  the  train.  Her  name  was  Celestine." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  others  waited  for  the  rest  of 
the  story. 

"  And  afterwards  ?  "  prompted  Annixter. 

"  Afterwards  ?  Nothing  afterwards.  I  never  saw  her 
again.  Her  name  was  Celestine." 

The  company  raised  a  chorus  of  derision,  and  Oster- 
man  cried  ironically: 

"  Say !  that's  a  pretty  good  one  !    Tell  us  another." 

The  old  man  laughed  with  the  rest,  believing  he  had 
made  another  hit.  He  called  Osterman  to  him,  whisper- 
ing in  his  ear : 

"  Sh !  Look  here !  Some  night  you  and  I  will  go  up 
to  San  Francisco — hey?  We'll  go  skylarking.  We'll  be 
gay.  Oh,  I'm  a — a — a  rare  old  buck,  I  am !  I  ain't  too 
old.  You'll  see." 

Annixter  gave  over  the  making  of  the  fifth  bowl  of 
punch  to  Osterman,  who  affirmed  that  he  had  a  recipe 
for  a  "  fertiliser "  from  Solotari  that  would  take  the 
plating  off  the  ladle.  He  left  him  wrangling  with  Car- 
aher,  who  still  persisted  in  adding  chartreuse,  and  stepped 
out  into  the  dance  to  see  how  things  were  getting  on. 

It  was  the  interval  between  two  dances.  In  and  around 
a  stall  at  the  farther  end  of  the  floor,  where  lemonade 
was  being  served,  was  a  great  throng  of  young  men. 
Others  hurried  across  the  floor  singly  or  by  twos  and 
threes,  gingerly  carrying  overflowing  glasses  to  their 
"  partners,"  sitting  in  long  rows  of  white  and  blue  and 
pink  against  the  opposite  wall,  their  mothers  and  older 


250  The  Octopus 

sisters  in  a  second  dark-clothed  rank  behind  them.  A 
babel  of  talk  was  in  the  air,  mingled  with  gusts  of 
laughter.  Everybody  seemed  having  a  good  time.  In 
the  increasing  heat  the  decorations  of  evergreen  trees 
and  festoons  threw  off  a  pungent  aroma  that  suggested 
a  Sunday-school  Christmas  festival.  In  the  other  stalls, 
lower  down  the  barn,  the  young  men  had  brought  chairs, 
and  in  these  deep  recesses  the  most  desperate  love-making 
was  in  progress,  the  young  man,  his  hair  neatly  parted, 
leaning  with  great  solicitation  over  the  girl,  his  "  part- 
ner "  for  the  moment,  fanning  her  conscientiously,  his 
arm  carefully  laid  along  the  back  of  her  chair. 

By  the  doorway,  Annixter  met  Sarria,  who  had  stepped 
out  to  smoke  a  fat,  black  cigar.  The  set  smile  of  amia- 
bility was  still  fixed  on  the  priest's  smooth,  shiny  face; 
the  cigar  ashes  had  left  grey  streaks  on  the  front  of  his 
cassock.  He  avoided  Annixter,  fearing,  no  doubt,  an 
allusion  to  his  game  cocks,  and  took  up  his  position  back 
of  the  second  rank  of  chairs  by  the  musicians'  stand, 
beaming  encouragingly  upon  every  one  who  caught 
his  eye. 

Annixter  was  saluted  right  and  left  as  he  slowly  went 
the  round  of  the  floor.  At  every  moment  he  had  to 
pause  to  shake  hands  and  to  listen  to  congratulations 
upon  the  size  of  his  barn  and  the  success  of  his  dance. 
But  he  was  distrait,  his  thoughts  elsewhere;  he  did  not 
attempt  to  hide  his  impatience  when  some  of  the  young 
men  tried  to  engage  him  in  conversation,  asking  him  to 
be  introduced  to  their  sisters,  or  their  friends'  sisters. 
He  sent  them  about  their  business  harshly,  abominably 
rude,  leaving  a  wake  of  angry  disturbance  behind  him, 
sowing  the  seeds  of  future  quarrels  and  renewed  un- 
popularity. He  was  looking  for  Hilma  Tree. 

When  at  last  he  came  unexpectedly  upon  her,  standing 
near  where  Mrs.  Tree  was  seated,  some  half-dozen  young 


A  Story  of  California  251 

men  hovering  uneasily  in  her  neighbourhood,  all  his  au- 
dacity was  suddenly  stricken  from  him ;  his  gruffness,  his 
overbearing  insolence  vanished  with  an  abruptness  that 
left  him  cold.  His  old-time  confusion  and  embarrass- 
ment returned  to  him.  Instead  of  speaking  to  her  as 
he  intended,  he  affected  not  to  see  her,  but  passed  by, 
his  head  in  the  air,  pretending  a  sudden  interest  in  a 
Japanese  lantern  that  was  about  to  catch  fire. 

But  he  had  had  a  single  distinct  glimpse  of  her, 
'definite,  precise,  a"hd  this  glimpse  was  enough.  Hilma 
had  changed.  The  change  was  subtle,  evanescent,  hard 
to  define,  but  not  the  less  unmistakable.  The  excitement, 
the  enchanting  delight,  the  delicious  disturbance  of  "  the 
first  ball,"  had  produced  its  result.  Perhaps  there  had 
only  been  this  lacking.  It  was  hard  to  say,  but  for  that 
brief  instant  of  time  Annixter  was  looking  at  Hilma, 
the  woman.  She  was  no  longer  the  young  girl  upon 
whom  he  might  look  down,  to  whom  he  might  con- 
descend, whose  little,  infantile  graces  were  to  be  consid- 
ered with  amused  toleration. 

When  Annixter  returned  to  the  harness  room,  he  let 
himself  into  a  clamour  of  masculine  hilarity.  Osterman 
had,  indeed,  made  a  marvellous  "  fertiliser,"  whiskey  for 
the  most  part,  diluted  with  champagne  and  lemon  juice. 
The  first  round  of  this  drink  had  been  welcomed  with  a 
salvo  of  cheers.  Hooven,  recovering  his  spirits  under 
its  violent  stimulation,  spoke  of  "  heving  ut  oudt  mit 
Cudder,  bei  Gott,"  while  Osterman,  standing  on  a  chair 
at  the  end  of  the  room,  shouted  for  a  "  few  moments 
quiet,  gentlemen,"  so  that  he  might  tell  a  certain  story 
he  knew. 

But,  abruptly,  Annixter  discovered  that  the  liquors — 
the  champagne,  whiskey,  brandy,  and  the  like — were  run- 
ning low.  This  would  never  do.  He  felt  that  he  would 
stand  disgraced  if  it  could  be  said  afterward  that  he  had 


252  The  Octopus 

not  provided  sufficient  drink  at  his  entertainment.  He 
slipped  out,  unobserved,  and,  rinding  two  of  his  ranch 
hands  near  the  doorway,  sent  them  down  to  the  ranch 
house  to  bring  up  all  the  cases  of  "stuff"  they  found 
there. 

However,  when  this  matter  had  been  attended  to,  An- 
nixter  did  not  immediately  return  to  the  harness  room. 
On  the  floor  of  the  barn  a  square  dance  was  under  way, 
the  leader  of  the  City  Band  calling  the  figures.  Young 
Vacca  indefatigably  continued  the  rounds  of  the  barn, 
paring  candle  after  candle,  possessed  with  this  single  idea 
of  duty,  pushing  the  dancers  out  of  his  way,  refusing 
to  admit  that  the  floor  was  yet  sufficiently  slippery.  The 
druggist  had  returned  indoors,  and  leaned  dejected  and 
melancholy  against  the  wall  near  the  doorway,  unable 
to  dance,  his  evening's  enjoyment  spoiled.  The  gayly 
apparelled  clerk  from  Bonneville  had  just  involved  him- 
self in  a  deplorable  incident.  In  a  search  for  his  hand- 
kerchief, which  he  had  lost  while  trying  to  find  his  pro- 
gramme card,  he  had  inadvertently  wandered  into  the 
feed  room,  set  apart  as  the  ladies'  dressing  room,  at  the 
moment  when  Mrs.  Hooven,  having  removed  the  waist 
of  Minna's  dress,  was  relacing  her  corsets.  There  was  a 
tremendous  scene.  The  clerk  was  ejected  forcibly,  Mrs. 
Hooven  filling  all  the  neighbourhood  with  shrill  expostu- 
lation. A  young  man,  Minna's  "  partner,"  who  stood  near 
the  feed  room  door,  waiting  for  her  to  come  out,  had 
invited  the  clerk,  with  elaborate  sarcasm,  to  step  outside 
for  a  moment ;  and  the  clerk,  breathless,  stupefied,  hustled 
from  hand  to  hand,  remained  petrified,  with  staring  eyes, 
turning  about  and  about,  looking  wildly  from  face  to 
face,  speechless,  witless,  wondering  what  had  happened. 

But  the  square  dance  was  over.  The  City  Band  was 
just  beginning  to  play  a  waltz.  Annixter  assuring  him- 
self that  everything  was  going  all  right,  was  picking  his 


A  Story  of  California  253 

way  across  the  floor,  when  he  came  upon  Hilma  Tree 
quite  alone,  and  looking  anxiously  among  the  crowd  of 
dancers. 

"  Having  a  good  time,  Miss  Hilma  ? "  he  demanded, 
pausing  for  a  moment. 

"  Oh,  am  I,  just!  "  she  exclaimed.  "  The  best  time- 
but  I  don't  know  what  has  become  of  my  partner.  See ! 
I'm  left  all  alone — the  only  time  this  whole  evening," 
she  added  proudly.  "  Have  you  seen  him — my  partner, 
sir?  I  forget  his  name.  I  only  met  him  this  evening, 
and  I've  met  so  many  I  can't  begin  to  remember  half 
of  them.  He  was  a  young  man  from  Bonneville — a 
clerk,  I  think,  because  I  remember  seeing  him  in  a  store 
there,  and  he  wore  the  prettiest  clothes ! " 

"  I  guess  he  got  lost  in  the  shuffle,"  observed  Annixter. 
Suddenly  an  idea  occurred  to  him.  He  took  his  resolu- 
tion in  both  hands.  He  clenched  his  teeth. 

"  Say !  look  here,  Miss  Hilma.  What's  the  matter  with 
you  and  I  stealing  this  one  for  ourselves  ?  I  don't  mean 
to  dance.  I  don't  propose  to  make  a  jumping- jack  of 
myself  for  some  galoot  to  give  me  the  laugh,  but  we'll 
walk  around.  Will  you?  What  do  you  say?" 

Hilma  consented. 

"  I'm  not  so  very  sorry  I  missed  my  dance  with  that — 
that — little  clerk,"  she  said  guiltily.  "  I  suppose  that's 
very  bad  of  me,  isn't  it?" 

Annixter  fulminated  a  vigorous  protest. 

"  I  am  so  warm !  "  murmured  Hilma,  fanning  herself 
with  her  handkerchief ;  "  and,  oh !  such  a  good  time  as 
I  have  had!  I  was  so  afraid  that  I  would  be  a  wall- 
flower and  sit  up  by  mamma  and  papa  the  whole  even- 
ing ;  and  as  it  is,  I  have  had  every  single  dance,  and  even 
some  dances  I  had  to  split.  Oh-h !  "  she  breathed,  glanc- 
ing lovingly  around  the  barn,  noting  again  the  festoons 
of  tri-coloured  cambric,  the  Japanese  lanterns,  flaring 


254  The  Octopus 

lamps,  and  "  decorations  "  of  evergreen ;  "  oh-h !  it's  all 
so  lovely,  just  like  a  fairy  story;  and  to  think  that  it 
can't  last  but  for  one  little  evening,  and  that  to-morrow 
morning  one  must  wake  up  to  the  every-day  things 
again ! " 

"  Well/'  observed  Annixter  doggedly,  unwilling  that 
she  should  forget  whom  she  ought  to  thank,  "  I  did  my 
best,  and  my  best  is  as  good  as  another  man's,  I  guess." 

Hilma  overwhelmed  him  with  a  burst  of  gratitude 
which  he  gruffly  pretended  to  deprecate.  Oh,  that  was 
all  right.  It  hadn't  cost  him  much.  He  liked  to  see 
people  having  a  good  time  himself,  and  the  crowd  did 
seem  to  be  enjoying  themselves.  What  did  she  think? 
Did  things  look  lively  enough?  And  how  about  herself 
— was  she  enjoying  it? 

Stupidly  Annixter  drove  the  question  home  again,  at 
his  wits'  end  as  to  how  to  make  conversation.  Hilma 
protested  volubly  she  would  never  forget  this  night, 
adding : 

"  Dance !  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  I  love  it !  I  didn't 
know  myself.  I  could  dance  all  night  and  never  stop 
once ! " 

Annixter  was  smitten  with  uneasiness.  No  doubt  this 
"  promenading  "  was  not  at  all  to  her  taste.  Wondering 
what  kind  of  a  spectacle  he  was  about  to  make  of  him- 
self, he  exclaimed : 

"Want  to  dance  now?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  she  returned. 

They  paused  in  their  walk,  and  Hilma,  facing  him, 
gave  herself  into  his  arms.  Annixter  shut  his  teeth, 
the  perspiration  starting  from  his  forehead.  For  five 
years  he  had  abandoned  dancing.  Never  in  his  best  days 
had  it  been  one  of  his  accomplishments. 

They  hesitated  a  moment,  waiting  to  catch  the  time 
from  the  musicians.  Another  couple  bore  down  upon 


A  Story  of  California  255 

them  at  precisely  the  wrong  moment,  jostling  them  out  of 
step.  Annixter  swore  under  his  breath.  His  arm  still 
about  the  young  woman,  he  pulled  her  over  to  one  corner. 

"  Now/'  he  muttered,  "  we'll  try  again." 

A  second  time,  listening  to  the  one-two-three,  one-two- 
three  cadence  of  the  musicians,  they  endeavoured  to  get 
under  way.  Annixter  waited  the  fraction  of  a  second 
too  long  and  stepped  on  Hilma's  foot.  On  the  third 
attempt,  having  worked  out  of  the  corner,  a  pair  of 
dancers  bumped  into  them  once  more,  and  as  they  were 
recovering  themselves  another  couple  caromed  violently 
against  Annixter  so  that  he  all  but  lost  his  footing.  He 
was  in  a  rage.  Hilma,  very  embarrassed,  was  trying  not 
to  laugh,  and  thus  they  found  themselves,  out  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  continually  jostled  from  their  posi- 
tion, holding  clumsily  to  each  other,  stammering  excuses 
into  one  another's  faces,  when  Delaney  arrived. 

He  came  with  the  suddenness  of  an  explosion.  There 
was  a  commotion  by  the  doorway,  a  rolling  burst  of 
oaths,  a  furious  stamping  of  hoofs,  a  wild  scramble  of 
the  dancers  to  either  side  of  the  room,  and  there  he  was. 
He  had  ridden  the  buckskin  at  a  gallop  straight  through 
the  doorway  and  out  into  the  middle  of  the  floor  of  the 
barn. 

Once  well  inside,  Delaney  hauled  up  on  the  cruel  spade- 
bit,  at  the  same  time  driving  home  the  spurs,  and  the 
buckskin,  without  halting  in  her  gait,  rose  into  the  air 
upon  her  hind  feet,  and  coming  down  again  with  a 
thunder  of  iron  hoofs  upon  the  hollow  floor,  lashed  out 
with  both  heels  simultaneously,  her  back  arched,  her  head 
between  her  knees.  It  was  the  running  buck,  and  had 
not  Delaney  been  the  hardest  buster  in  the  county,  would 
have  flung  him  headlong  like  a  sack  of  sand.  But  he 
eased  off  the  bit,  gripping  the  mare's  flanks  with  his 
knees,  and  the  buckskin,  having  long  since  known  her 


256  The  Octopus 

master,  came  to  hand  quivering,  the  bloody  spume  drip- 
ping from  the  bit  upon  the  slippery  floor. 

Delaney  had  arrayed  himself  with  painful  elaboration, 
determined  to  look  the  part,  bent  upon  creating  the  im- 
pression, resolved  that  his  appearance  at  least  should 
justify  his  reputation  of  being  "bad."  Nothing  was 
lacking — neither  the  campaign  hat  with  up-turned  brim, 
nor  the  dotted  blue  handkerchief  knotted  behind  the  neck, 
nor  the  heavy  gauntlets  stitched  with  red,  nor — this  above 
all — the  bear-skin  "  chaparejos,"  the  hair  trousers  of  the 
mountain  cowboy,  the  pistol  holster  low  on  the  thigh.  But 
for  the  moment  this  holster  was  empty,  and  in  his  right 
hand,  the  hammer  at  full  cock,  the  chamber  loaded,  the 
puncher  flourished  his  teaser,  an  army  Colt's,  the  lamp- 
light dully  reflected  in  the  dark  blue  steel. 

In  a  second  of  time  the  dance  was  a  bedlam.  The 
musicians  stopped  with  a  discord,  and  the  middle  of  the 
crowded  floor  bared  itself  instantly.  It  was  like  sand 
blown  from  off  a  rock;  the  throng  of  guests,  carried 
by  an  impulse  that  was  not  to  be  resisted,  bore  back 
against  the  sides  of  the  barn,  overturning  chairs,  tripping 
upon  each  other,  falling  down,  scrambling  to  their  feet 
again,  stepping  over  one  another,  getting  behind  each 
other,  diving  under  chairs,  flattening  themselves  against 
the  wall — a  wild,  clamouring  pell-mell,  blind,  deaf,  panic- 
stricken  ;  a  confused  tangle  of  waving  arms,  torn  muslin, 
crushed  flowers,  pale  faces,  tangled  legs,  that  swept  in 
all  directions  back  from  the  centre  of  the  floor,  leaving 
Annixter  and  Hilma,  alone,  deserted,  their  arms  about 
each  other,  face  to  face  with  Delaney,  mad  with  alcohol, 
bursting  with  remembered  insult,  bent  on  evil,  reckless 
of  results. 

After  the  first  scramble  for  safety,  the  crowd  fell  quiet 
for  the  fraction  of  an  instant,  glued  to  the  walls,  afraid 
to  stir,  struck  dumb  and  motionless  with  surprise  and 


A  Story  of  California  257 

terror,  and  in  the  instant's  silence  that  followed  Annixter, 
his  eyes  on  Delaney,  muttered  rapidly  to  Hilma: 

"  Get  back,  get  away  to  one  side.  The  fool  might 
shoot." 

There  was  a  second's  respite  afforded  while  Delaney 
occupied  himself  in  quieting  the  buckskin,  and  in  that 
second  of  time,  at  this  moment  of  crisis,  the  wonderful 
thing  occurred.  Hilma,  turning  from  Delaney,  her  hands 
clasped  on  Annixter's  arm,  her  eyes  meeting  his,  ex- 
claimed : 

"  You,  too !  " 

And  that  was  all ;  but  to  Annixter  it  was  a  revelation. 
Never  more  alive  to  his  surroundings,  never  more  ob- 
servant, he  suddenly  understood.  For  the  briefest  lapse 
of  time  he  and  Hilma  looked  deep  into  each  other's  eyes, 
and  from  that  moment  on,  Annixter  knew  that  Hilma 
cared. 

The  whole  matter  was  brief  as  the  snapping  of  a 
finger.  Two  words  and  a  glance  and  all  was  done.  But 
as  though  nothing  had  occurred,  Annixter  pushed  Hilma 
from  him,  repeating  harshly: 

"  Get  back,  I  tell  you.  Don't  you  see  he's  got  a  gun  ? 
Haven't  I  enough  on  my  hands  without  you  ?  " 

He  loosed  her  clasp  and  his  eyes  once  more  on  De- 
laney, moved  diagonally  backwards  toward  the  side  of 
the  barn,  pushing  Hilma  from  him.  In  the  end  he  thrust 
her  away  so  sharply  that  she  gave  back  with  a  long 
stagger ;  somebody  caught  her  arm  and  drew  her  in,  leav- 
ing Annixter  alone  once  more  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
his  hands  in  his  coat  pockets,  watchful,  alert,  facing  his 
enemy. 

But  the  cow-puncher  was  not  ready  to  come  to  grapples 
yet.  Fearless,  his  wits  gambolling  under  the  lash  of  the 
alcohol,  he  wished  to  make  the  most  of  the  occasion, 
maintaining  the  suspense,  playing  for  the  gallery.  By 


258  The  Octopus 

touches  of  the  hand  and  knee  he  kept  the  buckskin  in 
continual,  nervous  movement,  her  hoofs  clattering,  snort- 
ing, tossing  her  head,  while  he,  himself,  addressing  him- 
self to  Annixter,  poured  out  a  torrent  of  invective. 

"  Well,  strike  me  blind  if  it  ain't  old  Buck  Annixter ! 
He  was  going  to  show  me  off  Quien  Sabe  at  the  toe  of 
his  boot,  was  he?  Well,  here's  your  chance, — with  the 
ladies  to  see  you  do  it.  Gives  a  dance,  does  he,  high- 
falutin'  hoe-down  in  his  barn  and  forgets  to  invite  his 
,old  broncho-bustin'  friend.  But  his  friend  don't  for- 
get him;  no,  he  don't.  He  remembers  little  things,  does 
his  broncho-bustin'  friend.  Likes  to  see  a  dance  hisself 
on  occasion,  his  friend  does.  Comes  anyhow,  trustin'  his 
welcome  will  be  hearty;  just  to  see  old  Buck  Annixter 
dance,  just  to  show  Buck  Annixter's  friends  how  Buck 
can  dance — dance  all  by  hisself,  a  little  hen-on-a-hot-plate 
dance  when  his  broncho-bustin'  friend  asks  him  so  polite. 
A  little  dance  for  the  ladies,  Buck.  This  feature  of  the 
entertainment  is  alone  worth  the  price  of  admission. 
Tune  up,  Buck.  Attention  now !  I'll  give  you  the  key." 

He  "  fanned  "  his  revolver,  spinning  it  about  his  index 
finger  by  the  trigger-guard  with  incredible  swiftness,  the 
twirling  weapon  a  mere  blur  of  blue  steel  in  his  hand. 
Suddenly  and  without  any  apparent  cessation  of  the  move- 
ment, he  fired,  and  a  little  splinter  of  wood  flipped  into 
the  air  at  Annixter's  feet. 

"  Time ! "  he  shouted,  while  the  buckskin  reared  to 
the  report.  "  Hold  on — wait  a  minute.  This  place  is 
too  light  to  suit.  That  big  light  yonder  is  in  my  eyes. 
Look  out,  I'm  going  to  throw  lead." 

A  second  shot  put  out  the  lamp  over  the  musicians' 
stand.  The  assembled  guests  shrieked,  a  frantic,  shrink- 
ing quiver  ran  through  the  crowd  like  the  huddling  of 
frightened  rabbits  in  their  pen. 

Annixter  hardly  moved.     He  stood  some  thirty  paces 


A  Story  of  California  259 

from  the  buster,  his  hands  still  in  his  coat  pockets,  his 
eyes  glistening,  watchful. 

Excitable  and  turbulent  in  trifling  matters,  when 
actual  bodily  danger  threatened  he  was  of  an  abnormal 
quiet. 

"  I'm  watching  you,"  cried  the  other.  "  Don't  make 
any  mistake  about  that.  Keep  your  hands  in  your  coat 
pockets,  if  you'd  like  to  live  a  little  longer,  understand? 
And  don't  let  me  see  you  make  a  move  toward  your  hip 
or  your  friends  will  be  asked  to  identify  you  at  the 
morgue  to-morrow  morning.  When  I'm  bad,  I'm  called 
the  Undertaker's  Friend,  so  I  am,  and  I'm  that  bad  to- 
night that  I'm  scared  of  myself.  They'll  have  to  revise 
the  census  returns  before  I'm  done  with  this  place. 
Come  on,  now,  I'm  getting  tired  waiting.  I  come  to  see 
a  dance." 

"  Hand  over  that  horse,  Delaney,"  said  Annixter,  with- 
out raising  his  voice,  "  and  clear  out." 

The  other  affected  to  be  overwhelmed  with  infinite 
astonishment,  his  eyes  staring.  He  peered  down  from 
the  saddle. 

"  Wh-a-a-t !  "  he  exclaimed ;  "  wh-a-a-t  (lid  you  say  ? 
Why,  I  guess  you  must  be  looking  for  trouble;  that's 
what  I  guess." 

"  There's  where  you're  wrong,  m'son,"  muttered  An- 
nixter, partly  to  Delaney,  partly  to  himself.  "  If  I  was 
looking  for  trouble  there  wouldn't  be  any  guess-work 
about  it." 

With  the  words  he  began  firing.  Delaney  had  hardly 
entered  the  barn  before  Annixter's  plan  had  been  formed. 
Long  since  his  revolver  was  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat,  and 
he  fired  now  through  the  coat  itself,  without  withdraw- 
ing his  hands. 

Until  that  moment  Annixter  had  not  been  sure  of  him- 
self. There  was  no  doubt  that  for  the  first  few  moments 


260  The  Octopus 

of  the  affair  he  would  have  welcomed  with  joy  any 
reasonable  excuse  for  getting  out  of  the  situation.  But 
the  sound  of  his  own  revolver  gave  him  confidence.  He 
whipped  it  from  his  pocket  and  fired  again. 

Abruptly  the  duel  began,  report  following  report, 
spurts  of  pale  blue  smoke  jetting  like  the  darts  of  short 
spears  between  the  two  men,  expanding  to  a  haze  and 
drifting  overhead  in  wavering  strata.  It  was  quite  prob- 
able that  no  thought  of  killing  each  other  suggested  itself 
to  either  Annixter  or  Delaney.  Both  fired  without  aim- 
ing very  deliberately.  To  empty  their  revolvers  and 
avoid  being  hit  was  the  desire  common  to  both.  They 
no  longer  vituperated  each  other.  The  revolvers  spoke 
for  them. 

Long  after,  Annixter  could  recall  this  moment.  For 
years  he  could  with  but  little  effort  reconstruct  the  scene 
— the  densely  packed  crowd  flattened  against  the  sides  of 
the  barn,  the  festoons  of  lanterns,  the  mingled  smell  of 
evergreens,  new  wood,  sachets,  and  powder  smoke ;  the 
vague  clamour  of  distress  and  terror  that  rose  from  the 
throng  of  guests,  the  squealing  of  the  buckskin,  the  un- 
even explosions  of  the  revolvers,  the  reverberation  of 
trampling  hoofs,  a  brief  glimpse  of  Harran  Derrick's 
excited  face  at  the  door  of  the  harness  room,  and  in  the 
open  space  in  the  centre  of  the  floor,  himself  and  De- 
laney, manoeuvring  swiftly  in  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

Annixter's  revolver  contained  but  six  cartridges.  Al- 
ready it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  fired  twenty  times. 
Without  doubt  the  next  shot  was  his  last.  Then  what? 
He  peered  through  the  blue  haze  that  with  every  dis- 
charge thickened  between  him  and  the  buster.  For  his 
own  safety  he  must  "  place  "  at  least  one  shot.  Delaney's 
chest  and  shoulders  rose  suddenly  above  the  smoke  close 
upon  him  as  the  distraught  buckskin  reared  again.  An- 
nixter, for  the  first  time  during  the  fight,  took  definite 


A  Story  of  California  261 

aim,  but  before  he  could  draw  the  trigger  there  was  a 
great  shout  and  he  was  aware  of  the  buckskin,  the 
bridle  trailing,  the  saddle  empty,  plunging  headlong 
across  the  floor,  crashing  into  the  line  of  chairs.  De- 
laney  was  scrambling  off  the  floor.  There  was  blood  on 
the  buster's  wrist  and  he  no  longer  carried  his  revolver. 
Suddenly  he  turned  and  ran.  The  crowd  parted  right 
and  left  before  him  as  he  made  toward  the  doorway. 
He  disappeared. 

Twenty  men  promptly  sprang  to  the  buckskin's  head, 
but  she  broke  away,  and  wild  with  terror,  bewildered, 
blind,  insensate,  charged  into  the  corner  of  the  barn  by 
the  musicians'  stand.  She  brought  up  against  the  wall 
with  cruel  force  and  with  impact  of  a  sack  of  stones ;  her 
head  was  cut.  She  turned  and  charged  again,  bull-like, 
the  blood  streaming  from  her  forehead.  The  crowd, 
shrieking,  melted  before  her  rush.  An  old  man  was 
thrown  down  and  trampled.  The  buckskin  trod  upon 
the  dragging  bridle,  somersaulted  into  a  confusion  of 
chairs  in  one  corner,  and  came  down  with  a  terrific  clat- 
ter in  a  wild  disorder  of  kicking  hoofs  and  splintered 
wood.  But  a  crowd  of  men  fell  upon  her,  tugging  at  the 
bit,  sitting  on  her  head,  shouting,  gesticulating.  For 
five  minutes  she  struggled  and  fought ;  then,  by  degrees, 
she  recovered  herself,  drawing  great  sobbing  breaths  at 
long  intervals  that  all  but  burst  the  girths,  rolling  her 
eyes  in  bewildered,  supplicating  fashion,  trembling  in 
«very  muscle,  and  starting  and  shrinking  now  and  then 
like  a  young  girl  in  hysterics.  At  last  she  lay  quiet. 
The  men  allowed  her  to  struggle  to  her  feet.  The  saddle 
was  removed  and  she  was  led  to  one  of  the  empty  stalls, 
where  she  remained  the  rest  of  the  evening,  her  head 
low,  her  pasterns  quivering,  turning  her  head  apprehen- 
sively from  time  to  time,  showing  the  white  of  one  eye 
and  at  long  intervals  heaving  a  single  prolonged  sigh. 


262  The  Octopus 

And  an  hour  later  the  dance  was  progressing  as  evenly 
as  though  nothing  in  the  least  extraordinary  had  oc- 
curred. The  incident  was  closed — that  abrupt  swoop  of 
terror  and  impending  death  dropping  down  there  from 
-out  the  darkness,  cutting  abruptly  athwart  the  gayety  of 
the  moment,  come  and  gone  with  the  swiftness  of  a 
thunderclap.  Many  of  the  women  had  gone  home,  tak- 
ing their  men  with  them ;  but  the  great  bulk  of  the  crowd 
still  remained,  seeing  no  reason  why  the  episode  should 
interfere  with  the  evening's  enjoyment,  resolved  to  hold 
the  ground  for  mere  bravado,  if  for  nothing  else.  De- 
laney  would  not  come  back,  of  that  everybody  was  per- 
suaded, and  in  case  he  should,  there  was  not  found  want- 
ing fully  half  a  hundred  young  men  who  would  give 
him  a  dressing  down,  by  jingo!  They  had  been  too  sur- 
prised to  act  when  Delaney  had  first  appeared,  and  be- 
fore they  knew  where  they  were  at,  the  buster  had  cleared 
out.  In  another  minute,  just  another  second,  they  would 
'have  shown  him — yes,  sir,  by  jingo! — ah,  you  bet! 

On  all  sides  the  reminiscences  began  to  circulate.  At 
least  one  man  in  every  three  had  been  involved  in  a 
gun  fight  at  some  time  of  his  life.  "  Ah,  you  ought  to 
'have  seen  in  Yuba  County  one  time — "  "  Why,  in 
Butte  County  in  the  early  days — "  "  Pshaw !  this  to- 
night wasn't  anything!  Why,  once  in  a  saloon  in  Ari- 
zona when  I  was  there — "  and  so  on,  over  and  over 
again.  Osterman  solemnly  asserted  that  he  had  seen  a 
greaser  sawn  in  two  in  a  Nevada  sawmill.  Old  Broder- 
son  had  witnessed  a  Vigilante  lynching  in  '55  on  Cali- 
fornia Street  in  San  Francisco.  Dyke  recalled  how  once 
in  his  engineering  days  he  had  run  over  a  drunk  at  a 
street  crossing.  Gethings  of  the  San  Pablo  had  taken  a 
shot  at  a  highwayman.  Hooven  had  bayonetted  a  French 
Chasseur  at  Sedan.  An  old  Spanish-Mexican,  a  cen- 
tenarian from  Guadalajara,  remembered  Fremont's  stand 


A  Story  of  California  263 

on  a  mountain  top  in  San  Benito  County.  The  druggist 
had  fired  at  a  burglar  trying  to  break  into  his  store  one 
New  Year's  eve.  Young  Vacca  had  seen  a  dog  shot  in 
Guadalajara.  Father  Sarria  had  more  than  once  admin- 
istered the  sacraments  to  Portuguese  desperadoes  dying 
of  gunshot  wounds.  Even  the  women  recalled  terrible 
scenes.  Mrs.  Cutter  recounted  to  an  interested  group 
how  she  had  seen  a  claim  jumped  in  Placer  County  in 
1851,  when  three  men  were  shot,  falling  in  a  fusillade  of 
rifle  shots,  and  expiring  later  upon  the  floor  of  her  kitchen 
while  she  looked  on.  Mrs.  Dyke  had  been  in  a  stage 
hold-up,  when  the  shotgun  messenger  was  murdered. 
Stories  by  the  hundreds  went  the  round  of  the  company. 
The  air  was  surcharged  with  blood,  dying  groans,  the 
reek  of  powder  smoke,  the  crack  of  rifles.  All  the 
legends  of  '49,  the  violent,  wild  life  of  the  early  days, 
were  recalled  to  view,  defiling  before  them  there  in  an 
endless  procession  under  the  glare  of  paper  lanterns  and 
kerosene  lamps. 

But  the  affair  had  aroused  a  combative  spirit  amongst 
the  men  of  the  assembly.  Instantly  a  spirit  of  aggres- 
sion, of  truculence,  swelled  up  underneath  waistcoats 
and  starched  shirt  bosoms.  More  than  one  offender  was 
promptly  asked  to  "  step  outside."  It  was  like  young 
bucks  excited  by  an  encounter  of  stags,  lowering  their 
horns  upon  the  slightest  provocation,  showing  off  before 
the  does  and  fawns.  Old  quarrels  were  remembered. 
One  sought  laboriously  for  slights  and  insults,  veiled  in 
ordinary  conversation.  The  sense  of  personal  honour  be- 
came refined  to  a  delicate,  fine  point.  Upon  the  slightest 
pretext  there  was  a  haughty  drawing  up  of  the  figure, 
a  twisting  of  the  lips  into  a  smile  of  scorn.  Caraher 
spoke  of  shooting  S.  Behrman  on  sight  before  the  end 
of  the  week.  Twice  it  became  necessary  to  separate 
Hooven  and  Cutter,  renewing  their  quarrel  as  to  the 


264  The  Octopus 

ownership  of  the  steer.  All  at  once  Minna  Hooven's 
"  partner "  fell  upon  the  gayly  apparelled  clerk  from 
Bonneville,  pummelling  him  with  his  fists,  hustling  him 
out  of  the  hall,  vociferating  that  Miss  Hooven  had  been 
grossly  insulted.  It  took  three  men  to  extricate  the- 
clerk  from  his  clutches,  dazed,  gasping,  his  collar  un- 
fastened and  sticking  up  into  his  face,  his  eyes  staring 
wildly  into  the  faces  of  the  crowd. 

But  Annixter,  bursting  with  pride,  his  chest  thrown 
out,  his  chin  in  the  air,  reigned  enthroned  in  a  circle 
of  adulation.  He  was  the  Hero.  To  shake  him  by  the 
hand  was  an  honour  to  be  struggled  for.  One  clapped 
him  on  the  back  with  solemn  nods  of  approval.  "  There's 
the  boy  for  you ;  "  "  There  was  nerve  for  you ;  "  "  What's 
the  matter  with  Annixter  ?  "  "  How  about  that  for  sand, 
and  how  was  that  for  a  shot? "  "  Why,  Apache  Kid 
couldn't  have  bettered  that."  "Cool  enough."  "Took 
a  steady  eye  and  a  sure  hand  to  make  a  shot  like  that." 
"  There  was  a  shot  that  would  be  told  about  in  Tulare 
County  fifty  years  to  come." 

Annixter  had  refrained  from  replying,  all  ears  to  this 
conversation,  wondering  just  what  had  happened.  He 
knew  only  that  Delaney  had  run,  leaving  his  revolver 
and  a  spatter  of  blood  behind  him.  By  degrees,  how- 
ever, he  ascertained  that  his  last  shot  but  one  had  struck 
Delaney's  pistol  hand,  shattering  it  and  knocking  the 
revolver  from  his  grip.  He  was  overwhelmed  with  as- 
tonishment. Why,  after  the  shooting  began  he  had  not 
so  much  as  seen  Delaney  with  any  degree  of  plainness. 
The  whole  affair  was  a  whirl. 

"  Well,  where  did  you  learn  to  shoot  that  way  ?  "  some 
one  in  the  crowd  demanded.  Annixter  moved  his  shoul- 
ders with  a  gesture  of  vast  unconcern. 

"Oh,"  he  observed  carelessly,  "it's  not  my  shooting 
that  ever  worried  me,  m'son." 


A  Story  of  California  265 

The  crowd  gaped  with  delight.  There  was  a  great 
wagging  of  heads. 

"  Well,  I  guess  not." 

"  No,  sir,  not  much." 

"  Ah,  no,  you  bet  not." 

When  the  women  pressed  around  him,  shaking  his 
hands,  declaring  that  he  had  saved  their  daughters'  lives, 
Annixter  assumed  a  pose  of  superb  deprecation,  the  mod- 
est self-obliteration  of  the  chevalier.  He  delivered  him- 
self of  a  remembered  phrase,  very  elegant,  refined.  It 
was  Lancelot  after  the  tournament,  Bayard  receiving 
felicitations  after  the  battle. 

"  Oh,  don't  say  anything  about  it,"  he  murmured.  "  I 
only  did  what  any  man  would  have  done  in  my  place." 

To  restore  completely  the  equanimity  of  the  company, 
he  announced  supper.  This  he  had  calculated  as  a  tre- 
mendous surprise.  It  was  to  have  been  served  at  mid- 
night, but  the  irruption  of  Delaney  had  dislocated  the 
order  of  events,  and  the  tables  were  brought  in  an  hour 
ahead  of  time.  They  were  arranged  around  three  sides 
of  the  barn  and  were  loaded  down  with  cold  roasts  of 
beef,  cold  chickens  and  cold  ducks,  mountains  of  sand- 
wiches, pitchers  of  milk  and  lemonade,  entire  cheeses, 
bowls  of  olives,  plates  of  oranges  and  nuts.  The  advent 
of  this  supper  was  received  with  a  volley  of  applause. 
The  musicians  played  a  quick  step.  The  company  threw 
themselves  upon  the  food  with  a  great  scraping  of  chairs 
and  a  vast  rustle  of  muslins,  tarletans,  and  organdies; 
soon  the  clatter  of  dishes  was  a  veritable  uproar.  The 
tables  were  taken  by  assault.  One  ate  whatever  was 
nearest  at  hand,  some  even  beginning  with  oranges  and 
nuts  and  ending  with  beef  and  chicken.  At  the  end  the 
paper  caps  were  brought  on,  together  with  the  ice  cream. 
All  up  and  down  the  tables  the  pulled  "  crackers  "  snapped 
continually  like  the  discharge  of  innumerable  tiny  rifles. 


266  The  Octopus 

The  caps  of  tissue  paper  were  put  on — "  Phrygian  Bon- 
nets," "  Magicians'  Caps,"  "  Liberty  Caps ;  "  the  young 
girls  looked  across  the  table  at  their  vis-a-vis  with  bursts 
of  laughter  and  vigorous  clapping  of  the  hands. 

The  harness  room  crowd  had  a  table  to  themselves,  at 
the  head  of  which  sat  Annixter  and  at  the  foot  Harran. 
The  gun  fight  had  sobered  Presley  thoroughly.  He  sat 
by  the  side  of  Vanamee,  who  ate  but  little,  preferring 
rather  to  watch  the  scene  with  calm  observation,  a  little 
contemptuous  when  the  uproar  around  the  table  was  too 
boisterous,  savouring  of  intoxication.  Osterman  rolled 
bullets  of  bread  and  shot  them  with  astonishing  force 
up  and  down  the  table,  but  the  others — Dyke,  old  Broder- 
son,  Caraher,  Harran  Derrick,  Hooven,  Cutter,  Garnett 
of  the  Ruby  rancho,  Keast  from  the  ranch  of  the  same 
name,  Gethings  of  the  San  Pablo,  and  Chattern  of  the 
Bonanza — occupied  themselves  with  eating  as  much  as 
they  could  before  the  supper  gave  out.  At  a  corner  of 
the  table,  speechless,  unobserved,  ignored,  sat  Dabney, 
of  whom  nothing  was  known  but  his  name,  the  silent 
old  man  who  made  no  friends.  He  ate  and  drank 
quietly,  dipping  his  sandwich  in  his  lemonade. 

Osterman  ate  all  the  olives  he  could  lay  his  hands  on, 
a  score  of  them,  fifty  of  them,  a  hundred  of  them.  He 
touched  no  crumb  of  anything  else.  Old  Broderson 
stared  at  him,  his  jaw  fallen.  Osterman  declared  he  had 
once  eaten  a  thousand  on  a  bet.  The  men  called  each 
others'  attention  to  him.  Delighted  to  create  a  sensa- 
tion, Osterman  persevered.  The  contents  of  an  entire 
bowl  disappeared  in  his  huge,  reptilian  slit  of  a  mouth. 
His  cheeks  of  brownish  red  were  extended,  his  bald  fore- 
head glistened.  Colics  seized  upon  him.  His  stomach 
revolted.  It  was  all  one  with  him.  He  was  satisfied, 
contented.  He  was  astonishing  the  people. 

"  Once  I  swallowed  a  tree  toad/'  he  told  old  Broder- 


A  Story  of  California  267 

son,  "by  mistake.  I  was  eating  grapes,  and  the  beggar 
lived  in  me  three  weeks.  In  rainy  weather  he  would  sing. 
You  don't  believe  that,"  he  vociferated.  "  Haven't  I  got 
the  toad  at  home  now  in  a  bottle  of  alcohol." 

And  the  old  man,  never  doubting,  his  eyes  starting, 
wagged  his  head  in  amazement. 

"Oh,  yes,"  cried  Caraher,  the  length  of  the  table, 
"  that's  a  pretty  good  one.  Tell  us  another." 

"  That  reminds  me  of  a  story,"  hazarded  old  Broder- 
son  uncertainly ;  "  once  when  I  was  a  lad  in  Ukiah,  fifty 
years " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  cried  half  a  dozen  voices,  "  that's  a  pretty 
good  one.  Tell  us  another." 

"  Eh — wh — what  ?  "  murmured  Broderson,  looking 
about  him.  "  I — I  don't  know.  It  was  Ukiah.  You — 
you — you  mix  me  all  up." 

As  soon  as  supper  was  over,  the  floor  was  cleared 
again.  The  guests  clamoured  for  a  Virginia  reel.  The 
last  quarter  of  the  evening,  the  time  of  the  most  riotous 
fun,  was  beginning.  The  young  men  caught  the  girls 
who  sat  next  to  them.  The  orchestra  dashed  off  into  a 
rollicking  movement.  The  two  lines  were  formed.  In  a 
second  of  time  the  dance  was  under  way  again ;  the  guests 
still  wearing  the  Phrygian  bonnets  and  liberty  caps  of 
pink  and  blue  tissue  paper. 

But  the  group  of  men  once  more  adjourned  to  the  har- 
ness room.  Fresh  boxes  of  cigars  were  opened ;  the  sev- 
enth bowl  of  fertiliser  was  mixed.  Osterman  poured  the 
dregs  of  a  glass  of  it  upon  his  bald  head,  declaring  that 
he  could  feel  the  hair  beginning  to  grow. 

But  suddenly  old  Broderson  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Aha,"  he  cackled,  "  I'm  going  to  have  a  dance,  I 
am.  Think  I'm  too  old?  I'll  show  you  young  fellows. 
I'm  a  regular  old  rooster  when  I  get  started." 

He  marched  out  into  the  barn,  the  others  following, 


268  The  Octopus 

holding  their  sides.  He  found  an  aged  Mexican  woman 
by  the  door  and  hustled  her,  all  confused  and  giggling, 
into  the  Virginia  reel,  then  at  its  height.  Every  one 
crowded  around  to  see.  Old  Broderson  stepped  off  with 
the  alacrity  of  a  colt,  snapping  his  fingers,  slapping  his 
thigh,  his  mouth  widening  in  an  excited  grin.  The  entire 
company  of  the  guests  shouted.  The  City  Band  re- 
doubled their  efforts ;  and  the  old  man,  losing  his  head, 
breathless,  gasping,  dislocated  his  stiff  joints  in  his  ef- 
forts. He  became  possessed,  bowing,  scraping,  advanc- 
ing, retreating,  wagging  his  beard,  cutting  pigeons'  wings, 
distraught  with  the  music,  the  clamour,  the  applause,  the 
effects  of  the  fertiliser. 

Annixter  shouted: 

"  Nice  eye,  Santa  Claus." 

But  Annixter's  attention  wandered.  He  searched  for 
Hilma  Tree,  having  still  in  mind  the  look  in  her  eyes  at 
that  swift  moment  of  danger.  He  had  not  seen  her  since 
then.  At  last  he  caught  sight  of  her.  She  was  not 
dancing,  but,  instead,  was  sitting  with  her  "  partner  "  at 
the  end  of  the  barn  near  her  father  and  mother,  her  eyes 
wide,  a  serious  expression  on  her  face,  her  thoughts,  no 
doubt,  elsewhere.  Annixter  was  about  to  go  to  her  when 
he  was  interrupted  by  a  cry. 

Old  Broderson,  in  the  midst  of  a  double  shuffle,  had 
clapped  his  hand  to  his  side  with  a  gasp,  which  he  fol- 
lowed by  a  whoop  of  anguish.  He  had  got  a  stitch  or  had 
started  a  twinge  somewhere.  With  a  gesture  of  resigna- 
tion, he  drew  himself  laboriously  out  of  the  dance,  limp- 
ing abominably,  one  leg  dragging.  He  was  heard  asking 
for  his  wife.  Old  Mrs.  Broderson  took  him  in  charge. 
She  jawed  him  for  making  an  exhibition  of  himself, 
scolding  as  though  he  were  a  ten-year-old. 

"  Well,  I  want  to  know !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  he  hobbled 
off,  dejected  and  melancholy,  leaning  upon  her  arm, 


A  Story  of  California  269 

"  thought  he  had  to  dance,  indeed !  What  next  ?  A  gay 
old  grandpa,  this.  He'd  better  be  thinking  of  his  coffin.'' 

It  was  almost  midnight.  The  dance  drew  towards  its 
close  in  a  storm  of  jubilation.  The  perspiring  musicians 
toiled  like  galley  slaves ;  the  guests  singing  as  they  danced. 

The  group  of  men  reassembled  in  the  harness  room. 
Even  Magnus  Derrick  condescended  to  enter  and  drink 
a  toast.  Presley  and  Vanamee,  still  holding  themselves 
aloof,  looked  on,  Vanamee  more  and  more  disgusted. 
Dabney,  standing  to  one  side,  overlooked  and  forgotten, 
continued  to  sip  steadily  at  his  glass,  solemn,  reserved. 
Garnett  of  the  Ruby  rancho,  Keast  from  the  ranch  of 
the  same  name,  Gethings  of  the  San  Pablo,  and  Chattern 
of  the  Bonanza,  leaned  back  in  their  chairs,  their  waist- 
coats unbuttoned,  their  legs  spread  wide,  laughing — they 
could  not  tell  why.  Other  ranchers,  men  whom  Annixter 
had  never  seen,  appeared  in  the  room,  wheat  growers 
from  places  as  far  distant  as  Goshen  and  Pixley;  young 
men  and  old,  proprietors  of  veritable  principalities,  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  acres  of  wheat  lands,  a  dozen  of 
them,  a  score  of  them;  men  who  were  strangers  to  each 
other,  but  who  made  it  a  point  to  shake  hands  with 
Magnus  Derrick,  the  "  prominent  man "  of  the  valley. 
Old  Broderson,  whom  every  one  had  believed  had  gone 
home,  returned,  though  much  sobered,  and  took  his  place, 
refusing,  however,  to  drink  another  spoonful. 

Soon  the  entire  number  of  Annixter's  guests  found 
themselves  in  two  companies,  the  dancers  on  the  floor  of 
the  barn,  frolicking  through  the  last  figures  of  the  Vir- 
ginia reel  and  the  boisterous  gathering  of  men  in  the 
harness  room,  downing  the  last  quarts  of  fertiliser.  Both 
assemblies  had  been  increased.  Even  the  older  people 
had  joined  in  the  dance,  while  nearly  every  one  of  the 
men  who  did  not  dance  had  found  their  way  into -the 
harness  room.  The  two  groups  rivalled  each  other  in 


270  The  Octopus 

their  noise.  Out  on  the  floor  of  the  barn  was  a  very 
whirlwind  of  gayety,a  tempest  of  laughter,  hand-clapping 
and  cries  of  amusement.  In  the  harness  room  the  con- 
fused shouting  and  singing,  the  stamping  of  heavy  feet, 
set  a  quivering  reverberation  in  the  oil  of  the  kerosene 
lamps,  the  flame  of  the  candles  in  the  Japanese  lanterns 
flaring  and  swaying  in  the  gusts  of  hilarity.  At  intervals, 
between  the  two,  one  heard  the  music,  the  wailing  of  the 
violins,  the  vigorous  snarling  of  the  cornet,  and  the 
harsh,  incessant  rasping  of  the  snare  drum. 

And  at  times  all  these  various  sounds  mingled  in  a 
single  vague  note,  huge,  clamorous,  that  rose  up  into  the 
night  from  the  colossal,  reverberating  compass  of  the 
barn  and  sent  its  echoes  far  off  across  the  unbroken  levels 
of  the  surrounding  ranches,  stretching  out  to  infinity 
under  the  clouded  sky,  calm,  mysterious,  still. 

Annixter,  the  punch  bowl  clasped  in  his  arms,  was 
pouring  out  the  last  spoonful  of  liquor  into  Caraher's 
glass  when  he  was  aware  that  some  one  was  pulling  at 
the  sleeve  of  his  coat.  He  set  down  the  punch  bowl. 

"  Well,  where  did  you  come  from?  "  he  demanded. 

It  was  a  messenger  from  Bonneville,  the  uniformed 
boy  that  the  telephone  company  employed  to  carry  mes- 
sages. He  had  just  arrived  from  town  on  his  bicycle, 
out  of  breath  and  panting. 

"  Message  for  you,  sir.    Will  you  sign  ?  " 

He  held  the  book  to  Annixter,  who  signed  the  receipt, 
wondering. 

The  boy  departed,  leaving  a  thick  envelope  of  yellow 
paper  in  Annixter's  hands,  the  address  typewritten,  the 
word  "  Urgent "  written  in  blue  pencil  in  one  corner. 

Annixter  tore  it  open.  The  envelope  contained  other 
sealed  envelopes,  some  eight  or  ten  of  them,  addressed  to 
Magnus  Derrick,  Osterman,  Broderson,  Garnett,  Keast, 
Gethings,  Chattern,  Dabney,  and  to  Annixter  himself. 


A  Story  of  California  271 

Still  puzzled,  Annixter  distributed  the  envelopes,  mut- 
tering to  himself : 

"What's  up  now?" 

The  incident  had  attracted  attention.  A  comparative 
quiet  followed,  the  guests  following  the  letters  with  their 
eyes  as  they  were  passed  around  the  table.  They  fancied 
that  Annixter  had  arranged  a  surprise. 

Magnus  Derrick,  who  sat  next  to  Annixter,  was  the 
first  to  receive  his  letter.  With  a  word  of  excuse  he 
opened  it. 

"  Read  it,  read  it,  Governor,"  shouted  a  half-dozen 
voices.  "  No  secrets,  you  know.  Everything  above 
board  here  to-night." 

Magnus  cast  a  glance  at  the  contents  of  the  letter,  then 
rose  to  his  feet  and  read : 

Magnus  Derrick, 

Bonneville,  Tulare  Co.,  Cal. 

Dear  Sir: 

By  regrade  of  October  1st,  the  value  of  the  railroad 
land  you  occupy,  included  in  your  ranch  of  Los  Muertos, 
has  been  fixed  at  $27.00  per  acre.  The  land  is  now  for 
sale  at  that  price  to  any  one. 

Yours,  etc., 
CYRUS  BLAKELEE  RUGGLES, 

Land  Agent,  P.  and  S.  W.  R.  R. 

S.  BEHRMAN, 

Local  Agent,  R  and  S.  W.  R.  R. 

In  the  midst  of  the  profound  silence  that  followed, 
Osterman  was  heard  to  exclaim  grimly : 

"  That's  a  pretty  good  one.    Tell  us  another." 

But  for  a  long  moment  this  was  the  only  remark. 

The  silence  widened,  broken  only  by  the  sound  of  torn 


272  The  Octopus 

paper  as  Annixter,  Osterman,  old  Broderson,  Garnett, 
Keast,  Gethings,  Chattern,  and  Dabney  opened  and  read 
their  letters.  They  were  all  to  the  same  effect,  almost 
word  for  word  like  the  Governor's.  Only  the  figures  and 
the  proper  names  varied.  In  some  cases  the  price  per 
acre  was  twenty-two  dollars.  In  Annixter's  case  it  was 
thirty. 

"  And — and  the  company  promised  to  sell  to  me,  to — • 
to  all  of  us,"  gasped  old  Broderson,  "  at  two  dollars  and 
a  half  an  acre." 

It  was  not  alone  the  ranchers  immediately  around 
Bonneville  who  would  be  plundered  by  this  move  on  the 
part  of  the  Railroad.  The  "  alternate  section  "  system 
applied  throughout  all  the  San  Joaquin.  By  striking 
at  the  Bonneville  ranchers  a  terrible  precedent  was 
established.  Of  the  crowd  of  guests  in  the  harness 
room  alone,  nearly  every  man  was  affected,  every  man 
menaced  with  ruin.  All  of  a  million  acres  was  suddenly 
involved. 

Then  suddenly  the  tempest  burst.  A  dozen  men  were 
on  their  fee"t  in  an  instant,  their  teeth  set,  their  fists 
clenched,  their  faces  purple  with  rage.  Oaths,  curses, 
maledictions  exploded  like  the  firing  of  successive  mines. 
Voices  quivered  with  wrath,  hands  flung  upward,  the 
fingers  hooked,  prehensile,  trembled  with  anger.  The 
sense  of  wrongs,  the  injustices,  the  oppression,  extortion, 
and  pillage  of  twenty  years  suddenly  culminated  and 
found  voice  in  a  raucous  howl  of  execration.  For  a 
second  there  was  nothing  articulate  in  that  cry  of  savage 
exasperation,  nothing  even  intelligent.  It  was  the  human 
animal  hounded  to  its  corner,  exploited,  harried  to  its 
last  stand,  at  bay,  ferocious,  terrible,  turning  at  last  with 
bared  teeth  and  upraised  claws  to  meet  the  death  grapple. 
It  was  the  hideous  squealing  of  the  tormented  brute,  its 
back  to  the  wall,  defending  its  lair,  its  mate  and  its 


A  Story  of  California  273 

whelps,  ready  to  bite,  to  rend,  to  trample,  to  batter  out 
the  life  of  The  Enemy  in  a  primeval,  bestial  welter  of 
blood  and  fury. 

The  roar  subsided  to  intermittent  clamour,  in  the 
pauses  of  which  the  sounds  of  music  and  dancing  made 
themselves  audible  once  more. 

"  S.  Behrman  again,"  vociferated  Harran  Derrick. 

"  Chose  his  moment  well,"  muttered  Annixter.  "  Hits 
his  hardest  when  we're  all  rounded  up  having  a  good 
time." 

"  Gentlemen,  this  is  ruin." 

"What's  to  be  done  now?" 

"  Fight!  My  God !  do  you  think  we  are  going  to 
stand  this?  Do  you  think  we  can?" 

The  uproar  swelled  again.  The  clearer  the  assembly 
of  ranchers  understood  the  significance  of  this  move  on 
the  part  of  the  Railroad,  the  more  terrible  it  appeared, 
the  more  flagrant,  the  more  intolerable.  Was  it  possible, 
was  it  within  the  bounds  of  imagination  that  this  tyranny 
should  be  contemplated?  But  they  knew — past  years 
had  driven  home  the  lesson — the  implacable,  iron  mon- 
ster with  whom  they  had  to  deal,  and  again  and  again 
the  sense  of  outrage  and  oppression  lashed  them  to  their 
feet,  their  mouths  wide  with  curses,  their  fists  clenched 
tight,  their  throats  hoarse  with  shouting. 

"  Fight !     How  fight  ?    What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  If  there's  a  law  in  this  land " 

"  If  there  is,  it  is  in  Shelgrim's  pocket.  Who  owns  the 
courts  in  California?  Ain't  it  Shelgrim?" 

"  God  damn  him." 

"Well,  how  long  are  you  going  to  stand  it?  How 
long  before  you'll  settle  up  accounts  with  six  inches  ol 
plugged  gas-pipe  ?  " 

"  And  our  contracts,  the  solemn  pledges  of  the  corpo- 
ration to  sell  to  us  first  of  all " 

18 


274  The  Octopus 

"  And  now  the  land  is  for  sale  to  anybody." 

"  Why,  it  is  a  question  of  my  home.  Am  I  to  be  turned 
out?  Why,  I  have  put  eight  thousand  dollars  into  im- 
proving this  land." 

"  And  I  six  thousand,  and  now  that  I  have,  the  Rail- 
road grabs  it." 

"And  the  system  of  irrigating  ditches  that  Derrick 
and  I  have  been  laying  out.  There's  thousands  of  dollars 
in  that!" 

"  I'll  fight  this  out  till  I've  spent  every  cent  of  my 
money." 

"  Where  ?    In  the  courts  that  the  company  owns  ?  " 

"  Think  I  anr  going  to  give  in  to  this  ?  Think  I  am  to 
get  off  my  land?  By  God,  gentlemen,  law  or  no  law, 
railroad  or  no  railroad,  / — will — not" 

"  Nor  I." 

"  Nor  I." 

"  Nor  I." 

"This  is  the  last.  Legal  means  first;  if  those  fail — 
the  shotgun." 

"  They  can  kill  me.  They  can  shoot  me  down,  but 
I'll  die — die  fighting  for  my  home — before  I'll  give  in  to 
this." 

At  length  Annixter  made  himself  heard: 

"  All  out  of  the  room  but  the  ranch  owners,"  he 
shouted.  "  Hooven,  Caraher,  Dyke,  you'll  have  to  clear 
out.  This  is  a  family  affair.  Presley,  you  and  your 
friend  can  remain." 

Reluctantly  the  others  filed  through  the  door.  There 
remained  in  the  harness  room — besides  Vanamee  and 
Presley — Magnus  Derrick,  Annixter,  old  Broderson, 
Harran,  Garnett  from  the  Ruby  rancho,  Keast  from  the 
ranch  of  the  same  name,  Gethings  of  the  San  Pablo, 
Chattern  of  the  Bonanza,  about  a  score  of  others,  ranch- 
ers from  various  parts  of  the  county,  and,  last  of  all, 


A  Story  of  California  275 

Dabney,  ignored,  silent,  to  whom  nobody  spoke  and  who, 
as  yet,  had  not  uttered  a  word. 

But  the  men  who  had  been  asked  to  leave  the  harness 
room  spread  the  news  throughout  the  barn.  It  was  re- 
peated from  lip  to  lip.  One  by  one  the  guests  dropped 
out  of  the  dance.  Groups  were  formed.  By  swift  de- 
grees the  gayety  lapsed  away.  The  Virginia  reel  broke 
up.  The  musicians  ceased  playing,  and  in  the  place  of 
the  noisy,  effervescent  revelry  of  the  previous  half  hour,  a 
subdued  murmur  filled  all  the  barn,  a  mingling  of  whis- 
pers, lowered  voices,  the  coming  and  going  of  light  foot- 
steps, the  uneasy  shifting  of  positions,  while  from  behind 
the  closed  doors  of  the  harness  room  came  a  prolonged, 
sullen  hum  of  anger  and  strenuous  debate.  The  dance 
came  to  an  abrupt  end.  The  guests,  unwilling  to  go  as 
yet,  stunned,  distressed,  stood  clumsily  about,  their  eyes 
vague,  their  hands  swinging  at  their  sides,  looking 
stupidly  into  each  others'  faces.  !A  sense  of  impending 
calamity,  oppressive,  foreboding,  gloomy,  passed  through 
the  air  overhead  in  the  night,  a  long  shiver  of  anguish 
and  of  terror,  mysterious,  despairing. 

In  the  harness  room,  however,  the  excitement  con- 
tinued unchecked.  One  rancher  after  another  delivered 
himself  of  a  torrent  of  furious  words.  There  was  no 
order,  merely  the  frenzied  outcry  of  blind  fury.  One 
spirit  alone  was  common  to  all — resistance  at  whatever 
cost  and  to  whatever  lengths. 

Suddenly  Osterman  leaped  to  his  feet,  his  bald  head 
gleaming  in  the  lamp-light,  his  red  ears  distended,  a 
flood  of  words  filling  his  great,  horizontal  slit  of  a  mouth, 
his  comic  actor's  face  flaming.  Like  the  hero  of  a  melo- 
drama, he  took  stage  with  a  great  sweeping  gesture. 

"  Organisation,"  he  shouted,  "  that  must  be  our  watch- 
word. The  curse  of  the  ranchers  is  that  they  fritter 
away  their  strength.  Now,  we  must  stand  together,  now, 


276  The  Octopus 

now.  Here's  the  crisis,  here's  the  moment.  Shall  we 
meet  it  ?  /  call  for  the  League.  Not  next  week,  not  to- 
morrow, not  in  the  morning,  but  now,  now,  now,  this 
very  moment,  before  we  go  out  of  that  door.  Every  one 
of  us  here  to  join  it,  to  form  the  beginnings  of  a  vast 
organisation,  banded  together  to  death,  if  needs  be,  for 
the  protection  of  our  rights  and  homes.  Are  you  ready  ? 
Is  it  now  or  never?  I  call  for  the  League." 

Instantly  there  was  a  shout.  With  an  actor's  instinct, 
Osterman  had  spoken  at  the  precise  psychological  moment. 
He  carried  the  others  off  their  feet,  glib,  dexterous,  volu- 
ble. Just  what  was  meant  by  the  League  the  others  did 
not  know,  but  it  was  something,  a  vague  engine,  a  ma- 
chine with  which  to  fight.  Osterman  had  not  done  speak- 
ing before  the  room  rang  with  outcries,  the  crowd  of 
men  shouting,  for  what  they  did  not  know. 

"  The  League !    The  League !  " 

"  Now,  to-night,  this  moment;  sign  our  names  before 
we  leave." 

"  He's  right.    Organisation !    The  League  !  " 

"  We  have  a  committee  at  work  already,"  Osterman 
vociferated,  "  I  am  a  member,  and  also  Mr.  Broderson, 
Mr.  Annixter,  and  Mr.  Harran  Derrick.  What  our  aims 
are  we  will  explain  to  you  later.  Let  this  committee  be 
the  nucleus  of  the  League — temporarily,  at  least.  Trust 
us.  We  are  working  for  you  and  with  you.  Let  this 
committee  be  merged  into  the  larger  committee  of  the 
League,  and  for  President  of  the  League  " — he  paused 
the  fraction  of  a  second — "  for  President  there  can  be 
but  one  name  mentioned,  one  man  to  whom  we  all  must 
look  as  leader — Magnus  Derrick." 

The  Governor's  name  was  received  with  a  storm  of 
cheers.  The  harness  room  reechoed  with  shouts  of: 

"Derrick!     Derrick!" 

"  Magnus  for  President ! " 


A  Story  of  California  277 

"  Derrick,  our  natural  leader." 
"  Derrick,  Derrick,  Derrick  for  President." 
Magnus  rose  to  his  feet.     He  made  no  gesture.     Erect 
as  a  cavalry  officer,  tall,  thin,  commanding,  he  domi- 
nated the  crowd  in  an  instant.    There  was  a  moment's 
hush. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  if  organisation  is  a  good 
word,  moderation  is  a  better  one.  The  matter  is  too 
grave  for  haste.  I  would  suggest  that  we  each  and  sev- 
erally return  to  our  respective  homes  for  the  night,  sleep 
over  what  has  happened,  and  convene  again  to-morrow, 
when  we  are  calmer  and  can  approach  this  affair  in  a 
more  judicious  mood.  As  for  the  honour  with  which  you 
would  inform  me,  I  must  affirm  that  that,  too,  is  a  matter 
for  grave  deliberation.  This  League  is  but  a  name  as  yet. 
To  accept  control  of  an  organisation  whose  principles 
are  not  yet  fixed  is  a  heavy  responsibility.  I  shrink  from 

it " 

But  he  was  allowed  to  proceed  no  farther.  A  storm  of 
protest  developed.  There  were  shouts  of : 

"  No,  no.  The  League  to-night  and  Derrick  for  Pres- 
ident." 

"  We  have  been  moderate  too  long." 
"  The  League  first,  principles  afterward." 
"  We  can't  wait,"  declared  Osterman.     "  Many  of  us 
cannot  attend  a  meeting  to-morrow.    Our  business  affairs 
would  prevent  it.     Now  we  are  all  together.     I  propose 
a  temporary  chairman  and  secretary  be  named  and  a  bal- 
lot be  taken.     But  first  the  League.     Let  us  draw  up  a 
set  of  resolutions  to  stand  together,  for  the  defence  of 
our  homes,  to  death,  if  needs  be,  and  each  man  present 
affix  his  signature  thereto." 

He  subsided  amidst  vigorous  applause.  The  next 
quarter  of  an  hour  was  a  vague  confusion,  every  one  talk- 
ing at  once,  conversations  going  on  in  low  tones  in 


278  The  Octopus 

various  corners  of  the  room.  Ink,  pens,  and  a  sheaf  of 
foolscap  were  brought  from  the  ranch  house.  A  set  of 
resolutions  was  draughted,  having  the  force  of  a  pledge, 
organising  the  League  of  Defence.  Annixter  was  the 
first  to  sign.  Others  followed,  only  a  few  holding  back, 
refusing  to  join  till  they  had  thought  the  matter  over. 
The  roll  grew;  the  paper  circulated  about  the  table; 
each  signature  was  welcomed  by  a  salvo  of  cheers.  At 
length,  it  reached  Harran  Derrick,  who  signed  amid 
tremendous  uproar.  He  released  the  pen  only  to  shake 
a  score  of  hands. 

"  Now,  Magnus  Derrick." 

"  Gentlemen,"  began  the  Governor,  once  more  rising, 
"  I  beg  of  you  to  allow  me  further  consideration.  Gen- 
tlemen  " 

He  was  interrupted  by  renewed  shouting. 
"  No,  no,  now  or  never.  Sign,  join  the  League." 
"  Don't  leave  us.  We  look  to  you  to  help." 
But  presently  the  excited  throng  that  turned  their 
faces  towards  the  Governor  were  aware  of  a  new  face  at 
his  elbow.  The  door  of  the  harness  room  had  been  left 
unbolted  and  Mrs.  Derrick,  unable  to  endure  the  heart- 
breaking suspense  of  waiting  outside,  had  gathered  up 
all  her  courage  and  had  come  into  the  room.  Trembling, 
she  clung  to  Magnus's  arm,  her  pretty  light-brown  hair 
in  disarray,  her  large  young  girl's  eyes  wide  with  terror 
and  distrust.  What  was  about  to  happen  she  did  not 
understand,  but  these  men  were  clamouring  for  Magnus 
to  pledge  himself  to  something,  to  some  terrible  course 
of  action,  some  ruthless,  unscrupulous  battle  to  the  death 
with  the  iron-hearted  monster  of  steel  and  steam.  Nerved 
with  a  coward's  intrepidity,  she,  who  so  easily  obliterated 
herself,  had  found  her  way  into  the  midst  of  this  frantic 
crowd,  into  this  hot,  close  room,  reeking  of  alcohol  and 
tobacco  smoke,  into  this  atmosphere  surcharged  with 


A  Story  of  California  279 

hatred  and  curses.  She  seized  her  husband's  arm  im- 
ploring, distraught  with  terror. 

"  No,  no,"  she  murmured ;  "  no,  don't  sign." 

She  was  the  feather  caught  in  the  whirlwind.  En 
masse,  the  crowd  surged  toward  the  erect  figure  of  the 
Governor,  the  pen  in  one  hand,  his  wife's  fingers  in  the 
other,  the  roll  of  signatures  before  him.  The  clamour 
was  deafening;  the  excitement  culminated  brusquely. 
Half  a  hundred  hands  stretched  toward  him;  thirty 
voices^  at  top  pitch,  implored,  expostulated,  urged,  al- 
most commanded.  The  reverberation  of  the  shouting 
was  as  the  plunge  of  a  cataract. 

It  was  the  uprising  of  The  People ;  the  thunder  of  th<e 
outbreak  of  revolt ;  the  mob  demanding  to  be  led,  aroused 
at  last,  imperious,  resistless,  overwhelming.  It  was  the 
blind  fury  of  insurrection,  the  brute,  many-tongued,  red- 
eyed,  bellowing  for  guidance,  baring  its  teeth,  unsheath- 
ing its  claws,  imposing  its  will  with  the  abrupt,  resistless 
pressure  of  the  relaxed  piston,  inexorable,  knowing  no 
pity. 

"  No,  no,"  implored  Annie  Derrick.  "  No,  Magnus, 
don't  sign." 

"  He  must''  declared  Harran,  shouting  in  her  ear  to 
make  himself  heard,  "  he  must.  Don't  you  understand?  " 

Again  the  crowd  surged  forward,  roaring.  Mrs.  Der- 
rick was  swept  back,  pushed  to  one  side.  Her  husband 
no  longer  belonged  to  her.  She  paid  the  penalty  for 
being  the  wife  of  a  great  man.  The  world,  like  a  colossal 
iron  wedge,  crushed  itself  between.  She  was  thrust  to 
the  wall.  The  throng  of  men,  stamping,  surrounded 
Magnus ;  she  could  no  longer  see  him,  but,  terror-struck, 
she  listened.  There  was  a  moment's  lull,  then  a  vast 
thunder  of  savage  jubilation.  Magnus  had  signed. 

Harran  found  his  mother  leaning  against  the  wall,  her 
hands  shut  over  her  ears;  her  eyes,  dilated  with  fear, 


280  The  Octopus 

brimming  with  tears.  He  led  her  from  the  harness  room 
to  the  outer  room,  where  Mrs.  Tree  and  Hilma  took 
charge  of  her,  and  then,  impatient,  refusing  to  answer  the 
hundreds  of  anxious  questions  that  assailed  him,  hurried 
back  to  the  harness  room. 

Already  the  balloting  was  in  progress,  Osterman  acting 
as  temporary  chairman.  On  the  very  first  ballot  he  was 
made  secretary  of  the  League  pro  tern.,  and  Magnus 
unanimously  chosen  for  its  President.  An  executive 
committee  was  formed,  which  was  to  meet  the  next  day 
at  the  Los  Muertos  ranch  house. 

It  was  half-past  one  o'clock.  In  the  barn  outside  the 
greater  number  of  the  guests  had  departed.  Long  since 
the  musicians  had  disappeared.  There  only  remained 
the  families  of  the  ranch  owners  involved  in  the  meeting 
in  the  harness  room.  These  huddled  in  isolated  groups 
in  corners  of  the  garish,  echoing  barn,  the  women  in  their 
wraps,  the  young  men  with  their  coat  collars  turned  up 
against  the  draughts  that  once  more  made  themselves 
felt. 

For  a  long  half  hour  the  loud  hum  of  eager  conversa- 
tion continued  to  issue  from  behind  the  door  of  the  har- 
ness room.  Then,  at  length,  there  was  a  prolonged 
scraping  of  chairs.  The  session  was  over.  The  men 
came  out  in  groups,  searching  for  their  families. 

At  once  the  homeward  movement  began.  Every  one 
was  worn  out.  Some  of  the  ranchers'  daughters  had 
gone  to  sleep  against  their  mothers'  shoulders. 

Billy,  the  stableman,  and  his  assistant  were  awakened, 
and  the  teams  were  hitched  up.  The  stable  yard  was  full 
of  a  maze  of  swinging  lanterns  and  buggy  lamps.  The 
horses  fretted,  champing  the  bits ;  the  carry-alls  creaked 
with  the  straining  of  leather  and  springs  as  they  received 
their  loads.  At  every  instant  one  heard  the  rattle  of 
wheels,  as  vehicle  after  vehicle  disappeared  in  the  night. 


A  Story  of  California  281 

A  fine,  drizzling  rain  was  falling,  and  the  lamps  began  to 
show  dim  in  a  vague  haze  of  orange  light. 

Magnus  Derrick  was  the  last  to  go.  At  the  doorway 
of  the  barn  he  found  Annixter,  the  roll  of  names — which 
it  had  been  decided  he  was  to  keep  in  his  safe  for  the 
moment — under  his  arm.  Silently  the  two  shook  hands. 
Magnus  departed.  The  grind  of  the  wheels  of  his  carry- 
all grated  sharply  on  the  gravel  of  the  driveway  in  front 
of  the  ranch  house,  then,  with  a  hollow  roll  across  a 
little  plank  bridge,  gained  the  roadway.  For  a  moment 
the  beat  of  the  horses'  hoofs  made  itself  heard  on  the 
roadway.  It  ceased.  Suddenly  there  was  a  great  silence. 

Annixter,  in  the  doorway  of  the  great  barn,  stood 
looking  about  him  for  a  moment,  alone,  thoughtful. 
The  barn  was  empty.  That  astonishing  evening  had 
come  to  an  end.  The  whirl  of  things  and  people,  the 
crowd  of  dancers,  Delaney,  the  gun  fight,  Hilma  Tree, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  him  in  mute  confession,  the  rabble  in 
the  harness  room,  the  news  of  the  regrade,  the  fierce 
outburst  of  wrath,  the  hasty  organising  of  the  League,  all 
went  spinning  confusedly  through  his  recollection.  But 
he  was  exhausted.  Time  enough  in  the  morning  to  think 
it  all  over.  By  now  it  was  raining  sharply.  He  put  the 
roll  of  names  into  his  inside  pocket,  threw  a  sack  over 
his  head  and  shoulders,  and  went  down  to  the  ranch 
house. 

But  in  the  harness  room,  lighted  by  the  glittering  lan- 
terns and  flaring  lamps,  in  the  midst  of  overturned  chairs, 
spilled  liquor,  cigar  stumps,  and  broken  glasses,  Van- 
amee  and  Presley  still  remained  talking,  talking.  At 
length,  they  rose,  and  came  out  upon  the  floor  of  the 
barn  and  stood  for  a  moment  looking  about  them. 

Billy,  the  stableman,  was  going  the  rounds  of  the 
walls,  putting  out  light  after  light.  By  degrees,  the  vast 
interior  was  growing  dim.  Upon  the  roof  overhead  the 


282  The  Octopus 

rain  drummed  incessantly,  the  eaves  dripping.  The  floor 
was  littered  with  pine  needles,  bits  of  orange  peel,  ends 
and  fragments  of  torn  organdies  and  muslins  and  bits  of 
tissue  paper  from  the  "  Phrygian  Bonnets  "  and  "  Liberty 
Caps."  The  buckskin  mare  in  the  stall,  dozing  on  three 
legs,  changed  position  with  a  long  sigh.  The  sweat 
stiffening  the  hair  upon  her  back  and  loins,  as  it  dried, 
gave  off  a  penetrating,  ammoniacal  odour  that  mingled 
with  the  stale  perfume  of  sachet  and  wilted  flowers. 

Presley  and  Vanamee  stood  looking  at  the  deserted 
barn.     There  was  a  long  silence.     Then  Presley  said : 
"Well     .     .     .    what  do  you  think  of  it  all?" 
"  I  think,"  answered  Vanamee  slowly,  "  I  think  that 
there  was  a  dance  in  Brussels  the  night  before  Waterloo." 


BOOK  II 


In  his  office  at  San  Francisco,  seated  before  a  massive 
desk  of  polished  redwood,  very  ornate,  Lyman  Derrick 
sat  dictating  letters  to  his  typewriter,  on  a  certain  morn- 
ing early  in  the  spring  of  the  year.  The  subdued  mono- 
tone of  his  voice  proceeded  evenly  from  sentence  to  sen- 
tence, regular,  precise,  businesslike. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  acknowledge  herewith  your 
favour  of  the  I4th  instrrnt,  and  in  reply  would  state " 

"  Please  find  enclosed  draft  upon  New  Orleans  to 
be  applied  as  per  our  understanding " 

"  In  answer  to  your  favour  No.  1107,  referring  to  the 
case  of  the  City  and  County  of  San  Francisco  against 
Excelsior  Warehouse  &  Storage  Co.,  I  would  say 

His  voice  continued,  expressionless,  measured,  distinct. 
While  he  spoke,  he  swung  slowly  back  and  forth  in  his 
leather  swivel  chair,  his  elbows  resting  on  the  arms,  his 
pop  eyes  fixed  vaguely  upon  the  calendar  on  the  opposite 
wall,  winking  at  intervals  when  he  paused,  searching  for 
a  word. 

"  That's  all  for  the  present,"  he  said  at  length. 

Without  reply,  the  typewriter  rose  and  withdrew, 
thrusting  her  pencil  into  the  coil  of  her  hair,  closing  the 
door  behind  her,  softly,  discreetly. 

When  she  had  gone,  Lyman  rose,  stretching  himself, 
putting  up  three  fingers  to  hide  his  yawn.  To  further 


286  The  Octopus 

loosen  his  muscles,  he  took  a  couple  of  turns  the  length  of 
the  room,  noting  with  satisfaction  its  fine  appointments, 
the  padded  red  carpet,  the  dull  olive  green  tint  of  the 
walls,  the  few  choice  engravings — portraits  of  Marshall, 
Taney,  Field,  and  a  coloured  lithograph — excellently 
done — of  the  Grand  Canon  of  the  Colorado — the  deep- 
seated  leather  chairs,  the  large  and  crowded  bookcase 
(topped  with  a  bust  of  James  Lick,  and  a  huge  greenish 
globe),  the  waste  basket  of  woven  coloured  grass,  made 
by  Navajo  Indians,  the  massive  silver  inkstand  on  the 
desk,  the  elaborate  filing  cabinet,  complete  in  every  par- 
ticular, and  the  shelves  of  tin  boxes,  padlocked,  impres- 
sive, grave,  bearing  the  names  of  clients,  cases  and  estates. 

He  was  between  thirty-one  and  thirty-five  years  of 
age.  Unlike  Harran,  he  resembled  his  mother,  but  he 
was  much  darker  than  Annie  Derrick  and  his  eyes  were 
much  fuller,  the  eyeball  protruding,  giving  him  a  pop- 
eyed,  foreign  expression,  quite  unusual  and  unexpected. 
His  hair  was  black,  and  he  wore  a  small,  tight,  pointed 
mustache,  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  pushing  delicately 
upward  from  the  corners  of  his  lips  with  the  ball  of  his 
thumb,  the  little  finger  extended.  As  often  as  he  made 
this  gesture,  he  prefaced  it  with  a  little  twisting  gesture 
of  the  forearm  in  order  to  bring  his  cuff  into  view,  and, 
in  fact,  this  movement  by  itself  was  habitual. 

He  was  dressed  carefully,  his  trousers  creased,  a  pink 
rose  in  his  lapel.  His  shoes  were  of  patent  leather,  his 
cutaway  coat  was  of  very  rough  black  cheviot,  his 
double-breasted  waistcoat  of  tan  covert  cloth  with  buttons 
of  smoked  pearl.  An  Ascot  scarf — a  great  puff  of  heavy 
black  silk — was  at  his  neck,  the  knot  transfixed  by  a  tiny 
golden  pin  set  off  with  an  opal  and  four  small  diamonds. 

At  one  end  of  the  room  were  two  great  windows  of 
plate  glass,  and  pausing  at  length  before  one  of  these, 
Lyman  selected  a  cigarette  from  his  curved  box  of 


A  Story  of  California  287 

oxydized  silver,  lit  it  and  stood  looking  down  and  out, 
willing  to  be  idle  for  a  moment,  amused  and  interested  m 
the  view. 

His  office  was  on  the  tenth  floor  of  the  Exchange 
Building,  a  beautiful,  tower-like  affair  of  white  stone, 
that  stood  on  the  corner  of  Market  Street  near  its  inter- 
section with  Kearney,  the  most  imposing  office  building 
of  the  city. 

Below  him  the  city  swarmed  tumultuous  through  its 
grooves,  the  cable-cars  starting  and  stopping  with  a  gay 
jangling  of  bells  and  a  strident  whirring  of  jostled  glass 
windows.  Drays  and  carts  clattered  over  the  cobbles, 
and  an  incessant  shuffling  of  thousands  of  feet  rose  from 
the  pavement.  Around  Lotta's  fountain  the  baskets  of 
the  flower  sellers,  crammed  with  chrysanthemums,  violets, 
pinks,  roses,  lilies,  hyacinths,  set  a  brisk  note  of  colour  in 
the  grey  of  the  street. 

But  to  Lyman's  notion  the  general  impression  of  this 
centre  of  the  city's  life  was  not  one  of  strenuous  business 
activity.  It  was  a  continuous  interest  in  small  things,  a 
people  ever  willing  to  be  amused  at  trifles,  refusing  to 
consider  serious  matters — good-natured,  allowing  them- 
selves to  be  imposed  upon,  taking  life  easily — generous, 
companionable,  enthusiastic ;  living,  as  it  were,  from  day 
to  day,  in  a  place  where  the  luxuries  of  life  were  had 
without  effort ;  in  a  city  that  offered  to  consideration  the 
restlessness  of  a  New  York,  without  its  earnestness ;  the 
serenity  of  a  Naples,  without  its  languor ;  the  romance  of 
a  Seville,  without  its  picturesqueness. 

As  Lyman  turned  from  the  window,  about  to  resume 
his  work,  the  office  boy  appeared  at  the  door. 

"  The  man  from  the  lithograph  company,  sir/'  an- 
nounced the  boy. 

"Well,  what  does  he  want?"  demanded  Lyman,  add- 
ing, however,  upon  the  instant :  "  Show  him  in." 


The  Octopus 

A  young  man  entered,  carrying  a  great  bundle,  which 
he  deposited  on  a  chair,  with  a  gasp  of  relief,  exclaiming, 
all  out  of  breath : 

*;  From  the  Standard  Lithograph  Company/' 

"What  is?" 

"  Don't  know,"  replied  the  other.     "  Maps,  I  guess." 

"  I  don't  want  any  maps.  Who  sent  them?  I  guess 
you're  mistaken." 

Lyman  tore  the  cover  from  the  top  of  the  package, 
drawing  out  one  of  a  great  many  huge  sheets  of  white 
paper,  folded  eight  times.  Suddenly,  he  uttered  an  excla- 
mation : 

"Ah,  I  see.  They  are  maps.  But  these  should  not 
have  come  here.  They  are  to  go  to  the  regular  office  for 
distribution."  He  wrote  a  new  direction  on  the  label  of 
the  package :  "  Take  them  to  that  address,"  he  went  on. 
"  I'll  keep  this  one  here.  The  others  go  to  that  address. 
If  you  see  Mr.  Darrell,  tell  him  that  Mr.  Derrick — you 
get  the  name — Mr.  Derrick  may  not  be  able  to  get  around 
this  afternoon,  but  to  go  ahead  with  any  business  just  the 
same." 

The  young  man  departed  with  the  package  and.  Lyman, 
spreading 'out  the  map  upon,  the  table,  remained  for  some 
time  studying  it  thoughtfully. 

It  was  a  commissioner's  official  railway  map  of  the 
State  of  California,  completed  to  March  3Oth  of  that  year. 
Upon  it  the  different  railways  of  the  State  were  accur- 
ately plotted  in  various  colours,  blue,  green,  yellow. 
However,  the  blue,  the  yellow,  and  the  green  were  but 
brief  traceries,  very  short,  isolated,  unimportant.  At  a 
little  distance  these  could  hardly  be  seen.  The  whole 
map  was  gridironed  by  a  vast,  complicated  network  of 
red  lines  marked  P.  and  S.  W.  R.  R.  These  centralised 
at  vSan  Francisco  and  thence  ramified  and  spread  north, 
east,  and  south,  to  every  quarter  of  the  State.  From 


A  Story  of  California  289 

Coles,  in  the  topmost  corner  of  the  map,  to  Yuma  in  the 
lowest,  from  Reno  on  one  side  to  San  Francisco  on  the 
other,  ran  the  plexus  of  red,  a  veritable  system  of  blood 
circulation,  complicated,  dividing,  and  reuniting,  branch- 
ing, splitting,  extending,  throwing  out  feelers, off-shoots, 
tap  roots,  feeders — diminutive  little  blood  suckers  that 
shot  out  from  the  main  jugular  and  went  twisting  up  into 
some  remote  county,  laying  hold  upon  some  forgotten 
village  or  town,  involving  it  in  one  of  a  myriad  branching 
coils,  one  of  a  hundred  tentacles,  drawing  it,  as  it  were, 
toward  that  centre  from  which  all  this  system  sprang. 

The  map  was  white,  and  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  colour 
which  should  have  gone  to  vivify  the  various  counties, 
towns,  and  cities  marked  upon  it  had  been  absorbed  by 
that  huge,  sprawling  organism,  with  its  ruddy  arteries 
converging  to  a  central  point.  It  was  as  though  the  State 
had  been  sucked  white  and  colourless,  and  against  this 
pallid  background  the  red  arteries  of  the  monster  stood 
out,  swollen  with  life-blood,  reaching  out  to  infinity, 
gorged  to  bursting;  an  excrescence,  a  gigantic  parasite 
fattening  upon  the  life-blood  of  an  entire  commonwealth. 

However,  in  an  upper  corner  of  the  map  appeared  the 
names  of  the  three  new  commissioners :  Jones  McNish 
for  the  first  district,  Lyman  Derrick  for  the  second,  and 
James  Darrell  for  the  third. 

Nominated  in  the  Democratic  State  convention  in  the 
fall  of  the  preceding  year,  Lyman,  backed  by  the  coteries 
of  San  Francisco  bosses  in  the  pay  of  his  father's  political 
committee  of  ranchers,  had  been  elected  together  with 
Darrell,  the  candidate  of  the  Pueblo  and  Mojave  road, 
and  McNish,  the  avowed  candidate  of  the  Pacific  and 
Southwestern.  Darrell  was  rabidly  against  the  P.  and  S. 
W.,  McNish  rabidly  for  it.  Lyman  was  supposed  to  be 
the  conservative  member  of  the  board,  the  ranchers'  can- 
didate, it  was  true,  and  faithful  to  their  interests,  but  a 

IQ 


290  The  Octopus 

calm  man,  deliberative,  swayed  by  no  such  violent  emo- 
tions as  his  colleagues. 

Osterman's  dexterity  had  at  last  succeeded  in  entang- 
ling Magnus  inextricably  in  the  new  politics.  The  fa- 
mous League,  organised  in  the  heat  of  passion  the  night 
of  Annixter's  barn  dance,  had  been  consolidated  all 
through  the  winter  months.  Its  executive  committee,  of 
which  Magnus  was  chairman,  had  been,  through  Oster- 
man's manipulation,  merged  into  the  old  committee  com- 
posed of  Broderson,  Annixter,  and  himself.  Promptly 
thereat  he  had  resigned  the  chairmanship  of  this  commit- 
tee, thus  leaving  Magnus  at  its  head.  Precisely  as  Oster- 
man  had  planned,  Magnus  was  now  one  of  them.  The 
new  committee  accordingly  had  two  objects  in  view:  to 
resist  the  attempted  grabbing  of  their  lands  by  the  Rail- 
road, and  to  push  forward  their  own  secret  scheme  of 
electing  a  board  of  railroad  commissioners  who  should 
regulate  wheat  rates  so  as  to  favour  the  ranchers  of  the 
San  Joaquin.  The  land  cases  were  promptly  taken  to  the 
courts  and  the  new  grading — fixing  the  price  of  the  lands 
at  twenty  and  thirty  dollars  an  acre  instead  of  two — bit- 
terly and  stubbornly  fought.  But  delays  occurred,  the 
process  of  the  law  was  interminable,  and  in  the  intervals 
the  committee  addressed  itself  to  the  work  of  seating  the 
"  Ranchers'  Commission,"  as  the  projected  Board  of 
Commissioners  came  to  be  called. 

It  was  Harran  who  first  suggested  that  his  brother, 
Lyman,  be  put  forward  as  the  candidate  for  this  district. 
At  once  the  proposition  had  a  great  success.  Lyman 
seemed  made  for  the  place.  While  allied  by  every  tie 
of  blood  to  the  ranching  interests,  he  had  never  been 
identified  with  them.  He  was  city-bred.  The  Railroad 
would  not  be  over-suspicious  of  him.  He  was  a  good 
lawyer,  a  good  business  man,  keen,  clear-headed,  far- 
sighted,  had  already  some  practical  knowledge  of  pol- 


A  Story  of  California  291 

itics,  having  served  a  term  as  assistant  district  attorney, 
and  even  at  the  present  moment  occupying  the  position 
of  sheriff's  attorney.  More  than  all,  he  was  the  son  of 
Magnus  Derrick;  he  could  be  relied  upon,  could  be 
trusted  implicitly  to  remain  loyal  to  the  ranchers'  cause. 

The  campaign  for  Railroad  Commissioner  had  been 
very  interesting.  At  the  very  outset  Magnus's  commit- 
tee found  itself  involved  in  corrupt  politics.  The  pri- 
maries had  to  be  captured  at  all  costs  and  by  any  means, 
and  when  the  convention  assembled  it  was  found  neces- 
sary to  buy  outright  the  votes  of  certain  delegates.  The 
campaign  fund  raised  by  contributions  from  Magnus, 
Annixter,  Broderson,  and  Osterman  was  drawn  upon 
to  the  extent  of  five  thousand  dollars. 

Only  the  committee  knew  of  this  corruption.  The 
League,  ignoring  ways  and  means,  supposed  as  a  matter 
of  course  that  the  campaign  was  honorably  conducted. 

For  a  whole  week  after  the  consummation  of  this  part 
of  the  deal,  Magnus  had  kept  to  his  house,  refusing  to  be 
seen,  alleging  that  he  was  ill,  which  was  not  far  from 
the  truth.  The  shame  of  the  business,  the  loathing  of 
what  he  had  done,  were  to  him  things  unspeakable.  He 
could  no  longer  look  Harran  in  the  face.  He  began  a 
course  of  deception  with  his  wife.  More  than  once,  he 
had  resolved  to  break  with  the  whole  affair,  resigning 
his  position,  allowing  the  others  to  proceed  without  him. 
But  now  it  was  too  late.  He  was  pledged.  He  had 
joined  the  League.  He  was  its  chief,  and  his  defection 
might  mean  its  disintegration  at  the  very  time  when  it 
needed  all  its  strength  to  fight  the  land  cases.  More  than 
a  mere  deal  in  bad  politics  was  involved.  There  was  the 
land  grab.  His  withdrawal  from  an  unholy  cause  would 
mean  the  weakening,  perhaps  the  collapse,  of  another 
cause  that  he  believed  to  be  righteous  as  truth  itself.  He 
was  hopelessly  caught  in  the  mesh.  Wrong  seemed  in- 


292  The  Octopus 

dissolubly  knitted  into  the  texture  of  Right.  He  was 
blinded,  dizzied,  overwhelmed,  caught  in  the  current  of 
events,  and  hurried  along  he  knew  not  where.  He  re- 
signed himself. 

In  the  end,  and  after  much  ostentatious  opposition  on 
the  part  of  the  railroad  heelers,  Lyman  was  nominated 
and  subsequently  elected. 

When  this  consummation  was  reached  Magnus,  Oster- 
man,  Broderson,  and  Annixter  stared  at  each  other. 
Their  wildest  hopes  had  not  dared  to  fix  themselves  upon 
so  easy  a  victory  as  this.  It  was  not  believable  that  the 
corporation  would  allow  itself  to  be  fooled  so  easily, 
would  rush  open-eyed  into  the  trap.  How  had  it  hap- 
pened? 

Osterman,  however,  threw  his  hat  into  the  air  with 
wild  whoops  of  delight.  Old  Broderson  permitted  him- 
self a  feeble  cheer.  Even  Magnus  beamed  satisfaction. 
The  other  members  of  the  League,  present  at  the  time, 
shook  hands  all  around  and  spoke  of  opening  a  few 
bottles  on  the  strength  of  the  occasion.  Annixter  alone 
was  recalcitrant. 

"  It's  too  easy,"  he  declared.  "  No,  I'm  not  satisfied. 
Where's  Shelgrim  in  all  this?  Why  don't  he  show  his 
hand,  damn  his  soul?  The  thing  is  yellow,  I  tell  you. 
There's  a  big  fish  in  these  waters  somewheres.  I  don't 
know  his  name,  and  I  don't  know  his  game,  but  he's  mov- 
ing round  off  and  on,  just  out  of  sight.  If  you  think 
you've  netted  him,  I  don't,  that's  all  I've  got  to  say." 

But  he  was  jeered  down  as  a  croaker.  There  was  the 
Commission.  He  couldn't  get  around  that,  could  he? 
There  was  Darrell  and  Lyman  Derrick,  both  pledged  to 
the  ranches.  Good  Lord,  he  was  never  satisfied.  He'd 
be  obstinate  till  the  very  last  gun  was  fired.  Why,  if  he 
got  drowned  in  a  river  he'd  float  up-stream  just  to  be 
contrary. 


A  Story  of  California  293 

In  the  course  of  time,  the  new  board  was  seated.  For 
the  first  few  months  of  its  term,  it  was  occupied  in  clear- 
ing up  the  business  left  over  by  the  old  board  and  in  the 
completion  of  the  railway  map.  But  now,  the  decks 
were  cleared.  It  was  about  to  address  itself  to  the  con- 
sideration of  a  revision  of  the  tariff  for  the  carriage  of 
grain  between  the  San  Joaquin  Valley  and  tide-water. 

Both  Lyman  and  Darrell  were  pledged  to  an  average 
ten  per  cent,  cut  of  the  grain  rates  throughout  the  entire 
State. 

The  typewriter  returned  with  the  letters  for  Lyman  to 
sign,  and  he  put  away  the  map  and  took  up  his  morning's 
routine  of  business,  wondering,  the  while,  what  would 
become  of  his  practice  during  the  time  he  was  involved 
in  the  business  of  the  Ranchers'  Railroad  Commission. 

But  towards  noon,  at  the  moment  when  Lyman  was 
drawing  off  a  glass  of  mineral  water  from  the  siphon 
that  stood  at  his  elbow_,  there  was  an  interruption. 
Some  one  rapped  vigorously  upon  the  door,  which  was 
immediately  after  opened,  and  Magnus  and  Harran  came 
in,  followed  by  Presley. 

"  Hello,  hello !  "  cried  Lyman,  jumping  up,  extending 
his  hands,  "  why,  here's  a  surprise.  I  didn't  expect  you 
all  till  to-night.  Come  in,  come  in  and  sit  down.  Have  a 
glass  of  sizz-water,  Governor." 

The  others  explained  that  they  had  come  up  from 
Bonneville  the  night  before,  as  the  Executive  Committee 
of  the  League  had  received  a  despatch  from  the  lawyers 
it  had  retained  to  fight  the  Railroad,  that  the  judge  of 
the  court  in  San  Francisco,  where  the  test  cases  were 
being  tried,  might  be  expected  to  hand  down  his  decision 
the  next  day. 

Very  soon  after  the  announcement  of  the  new  grading 
of  the  ranchers'  lands,  the  corporation  had  offered, 
through  S.  Behrman,  to  lease  the  disputed  lands  to  the 


294  The  Octopus 

ranchers  at  a  nominal  figure.  The  offer  had  been  angrily; 
rejected,  and  the  Railroad  had  put  up  the  lands  for  sale 
at  Ruggles's  office  in  Bonneville.  At  the  exorbitant 
price  named,  buyers  promptly  appeared — dummy  buyers, 
beyond  shadow  of  doubt,  acting  either  for  the  Railroad 
or  for  S.  Behrman — men  hitherto  unknown  in  the 
county,  men  without  property,  without  money,  adven- 
turers, heelers.  Prominent  among  them,  and  bidding 
for  the  railroad's  holdings  included  on  Annixter's  ranch, 
was  Delaney. 

The  farce  of  deeding  the  corporation's  sections  to  these 
fictitious  purchasers  was  solemnly  gone  through  with  at 
Ruggles's  office,  the  Railroad  guaranteeing  them  pos- 
session. The  League  refused  to  allow  the  supposed 
buyers  to  come  upon  the  land,  and  the  Railroad,  faithful 
to  its  pledge  in  the  matter  of  guaranteeing  its  dummies 
possession,  at  once  began  suits  in  ejectment  in  the  dis- 
trict court  in  Visalia,  the  county  seat. 

It  was  the  preliminary  skirmish,  the  reconnaisance  in 
force,  the  combatants  feeling  each  other's  strength,  will- 
ing to  proceed  with  caution,  postponing  the  actual  death- 
grip  for  a  while  till  each  had  strengthened  its  position 
and  organised  its  forces. 

During  the  time  the  cases  were  on  trial  at  Visalia,  S. 
Behrman  was  much  in  evidence  in  and  about  the  courts. 
The  trial  itself,  after  tedious  preliminaries,  was  brief. 
The  ranchers  lost.  The  test  cases  were  immediately  car- 
ried up  to  the  United  States  Circuit  Court  in  San  Fran- 
cisco. At  the  moment  the  decision  of  this  court  was 
pending. 

"  Why,  this  is  news,"  exclaimed  Lyman,  in  response  to 
the  Governor's  announcement ;  "  I  did  not  expect  them 
to  be  so  prompt.    I  was  in  court  only  last  week  and  there 
seemed  to  be  no  end  of  business  ahead.     I  suppose  you  • 
are  very  anxious  ?  " 


A  Story  of  California  295 

Magnus  nodded.  He  had  seated  himself  in  one  of 
Lyman's  deep  chairs,  his  grey  top-hat,  with  its  wide 
brim,  on  the  floor  beside  him.  His  coat  of  black  broad- 
cloth that  had  been  tightly  packed  in  his  valise,  was  yet 
wrinkled  and  creased;  his  trousers  were  strapped  under 
his  high  boots.  As  he  spoke,  he  stroked  the  bridge  of 
his  hawklike  nose  with  his  bent  forefinger. 

Leaning  back  in  his  chair,  he  watched  his  two  sons 
with  secret  delight.  To  his  eye,  both  were  perfect  speci- 
mens of  their  class,  intelligent,  well-looking,  resource- 
ful. He  was  intensely  proud  of  them.  He  was  never 
happier,  never  more  nearly  jovial,  never  more  erect,  more 
military,  more  alert,  and  buoyant  than  when  in  the  com- 
pany of  his  two  sons.  He  honestly  believed  that  no  finer 
examples  of  young  manhood  existed  throughout  the  en- 
tire nation. 

"  I  think  we  should  win  in  this  court,"  Harran  ob- 
served, watching  the  bubbles  break  in  his  glass.  "  The 
investigation  has  been  much  more  complete  than  in  the 
Visalia  trial.  Our  case  this  time  is  too  good.  It  has 
made  too  much  talk.  The  court  would  not  dare  render 
a  decision  for  the  Railroad.  Why,  there's  the  agreement 
in  black  and  white — and  the  circulars  the  Railroad  is- 
sued. How  can  one  get  around  those  ?  " 

"  Well,  well,  we  shall  know  in  a  few  hours  now,"  re- 
marked Magnus. 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  Lyman,  surprised,  "  it  is  for  this 
morning,  then.  Why  aren't  you  at  the  court  ?  " 

"  It  seemed  undignified,  boy,"  answered  the  Governor. 
"  We  shall  know  soon  enough." 

"  Good  God !  "  exclaimed  Harran  abruptly,  "  when  I 
think  of  what  is  involved.  Why,  Lyman,  it's  our  home, 
the  ranch  house  itself,  nearly  all  Los  Muertos,  practically 
our  whole  fortune,  and  just  now  when  there  is  promise  of 
an  enormous  crop  of  wheat.  And  it  is  not  only  us. 


The  Octopus 

There  are  over  half  a  million  acres  of  the  San  Joaquin  in- 
volved. In  some  cases  of  the  smaller  ranches,  it  is  the 
confiscation  of  the  whole  of  the  rancher's  land.  If  this 
thing  goes  through,  it  will  absolutely  beggar  nearly  a 
hundred  men.  Broderson  wouldn't  have  a  thousand 
.acres  to  his  name.  Why,  it's  monstrous." 

"  But  the  corporations  offered  to  lease  these  lands," 
remarked  Lyman.  "Are  any  of  the  ranchers  taking  up 
that  offer — or  are  any  of  them  buying  outright?  " 

"  Buying !  At  the  new  figure !  "  exclaimed  Harran, 
"  at  twenty  and  thirty  an  acre !  Why,  there's  not  one  in 
ten  that  can.  They  are  land-poor.  And  as  for  leasing 
— leasing  land  they  virtually  own — no,  there's  precious 
few  are  doing  that,  thank  God !  That  would  be  acknowl- 
edging the  railroad's  ownership  right  away — forfeiting 
their  rights  for  good.  None  of  the  Leaguers  are  doing  it, 
I  know.  That  would  be  the  rankest  treachery." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  drinking  the  rest  of  the 
mineral  water,  then  interrupting  Lyman,  who  was  about 
to  speak  to  Presley,  drawing  him  into  the  conversation 
through  politeness,  said:  "Matters  are  just  romping 
right  along  to  a  crisis  these  days.  It's  a  make  or  break 
for  the  wheat  growers  of  the  State  now,  no  mistake. 
Here  are  the  land  cases  and  the  new  grain  tariff  drawing 
to  a  head  at  about  the  same  time.  If  we  win  our  land 
cases,  there's  your  new  freight  rates  to  be  applied,  and 
then  all  is  beer  and  skittles.  Won't  the  San  Joaquin  go 
wild  if  we  pull  it  off,  and  I  believe  we  will," 

"  How  we  wheat  growers  are  exploited  and  trapped 
and  deceived  at  every  turn,"  observed  Magnus  sadly. 
u  The  courts,  the  capitalists,  the  railroads,  each  of  them 
in  turn  hoodwinks  us  into  some  new  and  wonderful 
scheme,  only  to  betray  us  in  the  end.  Well,"  he  added, 
turning  to  Lyman,  "  one  thing  at  least  we  can  depend  on. 
We  will  cut  their  grain  rates  for  them,  eh,  Lyman  ?  " 


A  Story  of  California  297 

Lyman  crossed  his  legs  and  settled  himself  in  his  of- 
fice chair. 

"  I  have  wanted  to  have  a  talk  with  you  about  that, 
sir,"  he  said.  "  Yes,  we  will  cut  the  rates — an  average 
10  per  cent,  cut  throughout  the  State,  as  we  are  pledged. 
But  I  am  going  to  warn  you,  Governor,  and  you,  Har- 
ran ;  don't  expect  too  much  at  first.  The  man  who,  even 
after  twenty  years'  training  in  the  operation  of  railroads, 
can  draw  an  equitable,  smoothly  working  schedule  of 
freight  rates  between  shipping  point  and  common  point, 
is  capable  of  governing  the  United  States.  What  with 
main  lines,  and  leased  lines,  and  points  of  transfer,  and 
the  laws  governing  common  -carriers,  and  the  rulings  of 
the  Inter-State  Commerce  Commission,  the  whole  mat- 
ter has  become  so  confused  that  Vanderbilt  himself 
couldn't  straighten  it  out.  And  how  can  it  be  expected 
that  railroad  commissions  who  are  chosen — well,  let's  be 
frank — as  ours  was,  for  instance,  from  out  a  number  of 
men  who  don't  know  the  difference  between  a  switching 
charge  and  a  differential  rate,  are  going  to  regulate  the 
whole  business  in  six  months'  time  ?  Cut  rates  ;  yes,  any 
fool  can  do  that ;  any  fool  can  write  one  dollar  instead  of 
two,  but  if  you  cut  too  low  by  a  fraction  of  one  per  cent, 
and  if  the  railroad  can  get  out  an  injunction,  tie  you  up 
and  show  that  your  new  rate  prevents  the  road  being 
operated  at  a  profit,  how  are  you  any  better  off?  " 

"  Your  conscientiousness  does  you  credit,  Lyman,"  said 
the  Governor.  "  I  respect  you  for  it,  my  son.  I  know 
you  will  be  fair  to  the  railroad.  That  is  all  we  want. 
Fairness  to  the  corporation  is  fairness  to  the  farmer,  and 
we  won't  expect  you  to  readjust  the  whole  matter  out 
of  hand.  Take  your  time.  We  can  afford  to  wait." 

"  And  suppose  the  next  commission  is  a  railroad 
board,  and  reverses  all  our  figures  ?  " 

The  one-time  mining  king,  the  most  redoubtable  poker 


298  The  Octopus 

player  of  Calaveras  County,  permitted  himself  a  mo- 
mentary twinkle  of  his  eyes. 

"  By  then  it  will  be  too  late.  We  will,  all  of  us,  have 
made  our  fortunes  by  then." 

The  remark  left  Presley  astonished  out  of  all  meas- 
ure. He  never  could  accustom  himself  to  these  strange 
lapses  in  the  Governor's  character.  Magnus  was  by  na- 
ture a  public  man,  judicious,  deliberate,  standing  firm 
for  principle,  yet  upon  rare  occasion,  by  some  such  re- 
mark as  this,  he  would  betray  the  presence  of  a  sub- 
nature  of  recklessness,  inconsistent,  all  at  variance  with 
his  creeds  and  tenets. 

At  the  very  bottom,  when  all  was  said  and  done,  Mag- 
nus remained  the  Forty-niner.  Deep  down  in  his  heart 
the  spirit  of  the  Adventurer  yet  persisted.  "  We  will  all 
of  us  have  made  fortunes  by  then."  That  was  it  pre- 
cisely. "  After  us  the  deluge."  For  all  his  public  spirit, 
for  all  his  championship  of  justice  and  truth,  his  respect 
for  law,  Magnus  remained  the  gambler,  willing  to  play 
for  colossal  stakes,  to  hazard  a  fortune  on  the  chance  of 
winning  a  million.  It  was  the  true  California  spirit 
that  found  expression  through  him,  the  spirit  of  the 
West,  unwilling  to  occupy  itself  with  details,  refusing  to 
wait,  to  be  patient,  to  achieve  by  legitimate  plodding ; 
the  miner's  instinct  of  wealth  acquired  in  a  single  night 
prevailed,  in  spite  of  all.  It  was  in  this  frame  of  mind 
that  Magnus  and  the  multitude  of  other  ranchers  of 
whom  he  was  a  type,  farmed  their  ranches.  They  had  no 
love  for  their  land.  They  were  not  attached  to  the  soil. 
They  worked  their  ranches  as  a  quarter  of  a  century  be- 
fore they  had  worked  their  mines.  To  husband  the  re- 
sources of  their  marvellous  San  Joaquin,  they  considered 
niggardly,  petty,  Hebraic.  To  get  all  there  was  out  of 
the  land,  to  squeeze  it  dry,  to  exhaust  it,  seemed  their 
policy.  When,  at  last,  the  land  worn  out,  would  refuse 


A  Story  of  California  299 

to  yield,  they  would  invest  their  money  in  something 
els« ;  by  then,  they  would  all  have  made  fortunes.  They 
did  not  care.  "  After  us  the  deluge." 

Lyman,  however,  was  obviously  uneasy,  willing  to 
change  the  subject.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  pulling  down 
his  cuffs. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  observed,  "  I  want  you  three  to 
lunch  with  me  to-day  at  my  club.  It  is  close  by.  You 
can  wait  there  for  news  of  the  court's  decision  as  well 
as  anywhere  else,  and  I  should  like  to  show  you  the 
place.  I  have  just  joined." 

At  the  club,  when  the  four  men  were  seated  at  a 
small  table  in  the  round  window  of  the  main  room, 
Lyman's  popularity  with  all  classes  was  very  apparent. 
Hardly  a  man  entered  that  did  not  call  out  a  salutation 
to  him,  some  even  coming  over  to  shake  his  hand.  He 
seemed  to  be  every  man's  friend,  and  to  all  he  seemed 
equally  genial.  His  affability,  even  to  those  whom  he 
disliked,  was  unfailing. 

"  See  that  fellow  yonder,"  he  said  to  Magnus,  indi- 
cating a  certain  middle-aged  man,  flamboyantly  dressed, 
who  wore  his  hair  long,  who  was  afflicted  with  sore  eyes, 
and  the  collar  of  whose  velvet  coat  was  sprinkled  with 
dandruff,  "  that's  Hartrath,  the  artist,  a  man  absolutely 
devoid  of  even  the  commonest  decency.  How  he  got  in 
here  is  a  mystery  to  me." 

Yet,  when  this  Hartrath  came  across  to  say  "  How  do 
you  do  "  to  Lyman,  Lyman  was  as  eager  in  his  cordiality 
as  his  warmest  friend  could  have  expected. 

"  Why  the  devil  are  you  so  chummy  with  him,  then  ?  " 
observed  Harran  when  Hartrath  had  gone  away. 

Lyman's  explanation  was  vague.  The  truth  of  the 
matter  was,  that  Magnus's  oldest  son  was  consumed  by 
inordinate  ambition.  Political  preferment  was  his  dream, 
and  to  the  realisation  of  this  dream  popularity  was  an 


300  The  Octopus 

essential.  Every  man  who  could  vote,  blackguard  or 
gentleman,  was  to  be  conciliated,  if  possible.  He  made  it 
his  study  to  become  known  throughout  the  entire  com- 
munity— to  put  influential  men  under  obligations  to  him- 
self. He  never  forgot  a  name  or  a  face.  With  every- 
body he  was  the  hail-fellow-well-met.  His  ambition  was 
not  trivial.  In  his  disregard  for  small  things,  he  resem- 
bled his  father.  Municipal  office  had  no  attraction  for 
him.  His  goal  was  higher.  He  had  planned  his  life 
twenty  years  ahead.  Already  Sheriff's  Attorney,  Assist- 
ant District  Attorney  and  Railroad  Commissioner,  he 
could,  if  he  desired,  attain  the  office  of  District  Attorney 
itself.  Just  now,  it  was  a  question  with  him  whether  or 
not  it  would  be  politic  to  fill  this  office.  Would  it  ad- 
vance or  sidetrack  him  in  the  career  he  had  outlined  for 
himself?  Lyman  wanted  to  be  something  better  than 
District  Attorney,  better  than  Mayor,  than  State  Sen- 
ator, or  even  than  member  of  the  United  States  Congress. 
He  wanted  to  be,  in  fact,  what  his  father  was  only  in 
name — to  succeed  where  Magnus  had  failed.  He  wanted 
to  be  governor  of  the  State.  He  had  put  his  teeth  to- 
gether, and,  deaf  to  all  other  considerations,  blind  to  all 
other  issues,  he  worked  with  the  infinite  slowness,  the 
unshakable  tenacity  of  the  coral  insect  to  this  one  end. 

After  luncheon  was  over,  Lyman  ordered  cigars  and 
liqueurs,  and  with  the  three  others  returned  to  the  main 
room  of  the  club.  However,  their  former  place  in  the 
round  window  was  occupied.  A  middle-aged  man,  with 
iron  grey  hair  and  moustache,  who  wore  a  frock  coat  and 
a  white  waistcoat,  and  in  some  indefinable  manner  sug- 
gested a  retired  naval  officer,  was  sitting  at  their  table 
smoking  a  long,  thin  cigar.  At  sight  of  him,  Presley 
became  animated.  He  uttered  a  mild  exclamation : 

"Why,  isn't  that  Mr.  Cedarquist?" 

"  Cedarquist  ?  "   repeated  Lyman  Derrick.     "  I   know 


A  Story  of  California  301 

him  well.  Yes,  of  course,  it  is,"  he  continued.  "  Gov- 
ernor, you  must  know  him.  He  is  one  of  our  representa- 
tive men.  You  would  enjoy  talking  to  him.  He  was 
the  head  of  the  big  Atlas  Iron  Works.  They  have  shut 
down  recently,  you  know.  Not  failed  exactly,  but  just 
ceased  to  be  a  paying  investment,  and  Cedarquist  closed 
them  out.  He  has  other  interests,  though.  He's  a  rich 
man — a  capitalist." 

Lyman  brought  the  group  up  to  the  gentleman  in  ques- 
tion and  introduced  them. 

"Mr.  Magnus  Derrick,  of  course,"  observed  Cedar- 
quist, as  he  took  the  Governor's  hand.  "  I've  known  you 
by  repute  for  some  time,  sir.  This  is  a  great  pleasure,  I 
assure  you."  Then,  turning  to  Presley,  he  added: 
"  Hello,  Pres,  my  boy.  How  is  the  great,  the  very  great 
Poem  getting  on  ?  " 

"  It's  not  getting  on  at  all,  sir,"  answered  Presley,  in 
some  embarrassment,  as  they  all  sat  down.  "  In  fact, 
I've  about  given  up  the  idea.  There's  so  much  interest  in 
what  you  might  call '  living  issues  '  down  at  Los  Muertos 
now,  that  I'm  getting  further  and  further  from  it  every 
day." 

"  I  should  say  as  much,"  remarked  the  manufacturer, 
turning  towards  Magnus.  "I'm  watching  your  fight  with 
Shelgrim,  Mr.  Derrick,  with  every  degree  of  interest." 
He  raised  his  drink  of  whiskey  and  soda.  "  Here's  suc- 
cess to  you." 

As  he  replaced  his  glass,  the  artist  Hartrath  joined 
the  group  uninvited.  As  a  pretext,  he  engaged  Lyman 
in  conversation.  Lyman,  he  believed,  was  a  man  with 
a  "  pull  "  at  the  City  Hall.  In  connection  with  a  projected 
Million-Dollar  Fair  and  Flower  Festival,  which  at  that 
moment  was  the  talk  of  the  city,  certain  statues  were  to 
be  erected,  and  Hartrath  bespoke  Lyman's  influence  to 
further  the  pretensions  of  a  sculptor  friend  of  his,  who 


302  The  Octopus 

wished  to  be  Art  Director  of  the  affair.  In  the  matter  of 
this  Fair  and  Flower  Festival,  Hartrath  was  not  lacking 
in  enthusiasm.  He  addressed  the  others  with  extrava- 
gant gestures,  blinking  his  inflamed  eyelids. 

"  A  million  dollars,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Hey !  think  of 
that.  Why,  do  you  know  that  we  have  five  hundred 
thousand  practically  pledged  already?  Talk  about  pub- 
lic spirit,  gentlemen,  this  is  the  most  public-spirited  city 
on  the  continent.  And  the  money  is  not  thrown  away. 
We  will  have  Eastern  visitors  here  by  the  thousands — 
capitalists — men  with  money  to  invest.  The  million  we 
spend  on  our  fair  will  be  money  in  our  pockets.  Ah, 
you  should  see  how  the  women  of  this  city  are  taking 
hold  of  the  matter.  They  are  giving  all  kinds  of  little 
entertainments,  teas,  '  Olde  Tyme  Singing  Skules,'  ama- 
teur theatricals,  gingerbread  fetes,  all  for  the  benefit  of 
the  fund,  and  the  business  men,  too — pouring  out  their 
money  like  water.  It  is  splendid,  splendid,  to  see  a  com- 
munity so  patriotic." 

The  manufacturer,  Cedarquist,  fixed  the  artist  with  a 
glance  of  melancholy  interest. 

"  And  how  much,"  he  remarked,  "  will  they  contrib- 
ute— your  gingerbread  women  and  public-spirited  capi- 
talists, towards  the  blowing  up  of  the  ruins  of  the  Atlas 
Ironworks?" 

"  Blowing  up  ?  I  don't  understand,"  murmured  the 
artist,  surprised. 

"  When  you  get  your  Eastern  capitalists  out  here  with 
your  Million-Dollar  Fair,"  continued  Cedarquist,  "  you 
don't  propose,  do  you,  to  let  them  see  a  Million-Dollar 
Iron  Foundry  standing  idle,  because  of  the  indifference 
of  San  Francisco  business  men?  They  might  ask  perti- 
nent questions,  your  capitalists,  and  we  should  have  to 
answer  that  our  business  men  preferred  to  invest  their 
money  in  corner  lots  and  government  bonds,  rather  than 


A  Story  of  California  303 

to  back  up  a  legitimate,  industrial  enterprise.  We  don't 
want  fairs.  We  want  active  furnaces.  We  don't  want 
public  statues,  and  fountains,  and  park  extensions  and 
gingerbread  fetes.  We  want  business  enterprise.  Isn't 
it  like  us  ?  Isn't  it  like  us  ?  "  he  exclaimed  sadly.  "  What 
a  melancholy  comment !  San  Francisco  !  It  is  not  a  city 
— it  is  a  Midway  Plaisance.  California  likes  to  be 
fooled.  Do  you  suppose  Shelgrim  could  convert  the 
whole  San  Joaquin  Valley  into  his  back  yard  otherwise? 
Indifference  to  public  affairs — absolute  indifference,  it 
stamps  us  all.  Our  State  is  the  very  paradise  of  fakirs. 
You  and  your  Million-Dollar  Fair ! "  He  turned  to 
Hartrath  with  a  quiet  smile.  "  It  is  just  such  men  as 
you,  Mr.  Hartrath,  that  are  the  ruin  of  us.  You  organise 
a  sham  of  tinsel  and  pasteboard,  put  on  fool's  cap  and 
bells,  beat  a  gong  at  a  street  corner,  and  the  crowd 
cheers  you  and  drops  nickels  into  your  hat.  Your  ginger- 
bread fete;  yes,  I  saw  it  in  full  blast  the  other  night  on 
the  grounds  of  one  of  your  women's  places  on  Sutter 
Street.  I  was  on  my  way  home  from  the  last  board 
meeting  of  the  Atlas  Company.  A  gingerbread  fete, 
my  God !  and  the  Atlas  plant  shutting  down  for  want  of 
financial  backing.  A  million  dollars  spent  to  attract  the 
Eastern  investor,  in  order  to  show  him  an  abandoned 
rolling  mill,  wherein  the  only  activity  is  the  sale  of  rem- 
nant material  and  scrap  steel." 

Lyman,  however,  interfered.  The  situation  was  be- 
coming strained.  He  tried  to  conciliate  the  three  men — 
the  artist,  the  manufacturer,  and  the  farmer,  the  warring 
elements.  But  Hartrath,  unwilling  to  face  the  enmity 
that  he  felt  accumulating  against  him,  took  himself  away. 
A  picture  of  his — "  A  Study  of  the  Contra  Costa  Foot- 
hills " — was  to  be  raffled  in  the  club  rooms  for  the  benefit 
of  the  Fair.  He,  himself,  was  in  charge  of  the  matter. 
He  disappeared. 


304  The  Octopus 

Cedarquist  looked  after  him  with  contemplative  in- 
terest. Then,  turning  to  Magnus,  excused  himself  for 
the  acridity  of  his  words. 

"  He's  no  worse  than  many  others,  and  the  people 
of  this  State  and  city  are,  after  all,  only  a  little  more 
addle-headed  than  other  Americans."  It  was  his 
favourite  topic.  Sure  of  the  interest  of  his  hearers,  he 
unburdened  himself. 

"  If  I  were  to  name  the  one  crying  evil  of  American 
life,  Mr.  Derrick,"  he  continued,  "  it  would  be  the  in- 
difference of  the  better  people  to  public  affairs.  It  is  so 
in  all  our  great  centres.  There  are  other  great  trusts, 
God  knows,  in  the  United  States  besides  our  own  dear  P. 
and  S.W.  Railroad.  Every  State  has  its  own  grievance. 
If  it  is  not  a  railroad  trust,  it  is  a  sugar  trust,  or  an  oil 
trust,  or  an  industrial  trust,  that  exploits  the  People, 
because  the  People  allow  it.  The  indifference  of  the 
People  is  the  opportunity  of  the  despot.  It  is  as  true 
as  that  the  whole  is  greater  than  the  part,  and  the  maxim 
is  so  old  that  it  is  trite — it  is  laughable.  It  is  neglected 
and  disused  for  the  sake  of  some  new  ingenious  and 
complicated  theory,  some  wonderful  scheme  of  reorgan- 
isation, but  the  fact  remains,  nevertheless,  simple,  funda- 
mental, everlasting.  The  People  have  but  to  say  '  No,' 
and  not  the  strongest  tyranny,  political,  religious,  or 
financial,  that  was  ever  organised,  could  survive  one 
week." 

The  others,  absorbed,  attentive,  approved,  nodding 
their  heads  in  silence  as  the  manufacturer  finished. 

"  That's  one  reason,  Mr.  Derrick,"  the  other  resumed 
after  a  moment,  "  why  I  have  been  so  glad  to  meet  you. 
You  and  your  League  are  trying  to  say  '  No '  to  the 
trust.  I  hope  you  will  succeed.  If  your  example  will 
rally  the  People  to  your  cause,  you  will.  Otherwise — " 
he  shook  his  head. 


A  Story  of  California  305 

"  One  stage  of  the  fight  is  to  be  passed  this  very  day," 
observed  Magnus.  "  My  sons  and  myself  are  expecting 
hourly  news  from  the  City  Hall,  a  decision  in  our  case 
is  pending." 

"  We  are  both  of  us  fighters,  it  seems,  Mr.  Derrick," 
said  Cedarquist.  "  Each  with  his  particular  enemy.  We 
are  well  met,  indeed,  the  farmer  and  the  manufacturer, 
both  in  the  same  grist  between  the  two  millstones  of  the 
lethargy  of  the  Public  and  the  aggression  of  the  Trust, 
the  two  great  evils  of  modern  America.  Pres,  my  boy, 
there  is  your  epic  poem  ready  to  hand." 

But  Cedarquist  was  full  of  another  idea.  Rarely  did 
so  favourable  an  opportunity  present  itself  for  explain- 
ing his  theories,  his  ambitions.  Addressing  himself  to 
Magnus,  he  continued: 

"  Fortunately  for  myself,  the  Atlas  Company  was  not 
my  only  investment.  I  have  other  interests.  The  build- 
ing of  ships — steel  sailing  ships — has  been  an  ambition 
of  mine, — for  this  purpose,  Mr.  Derrick,  to  carry  Ameri- 
can wheat.  For  years,  I  have  studied  this  question  of 
American  wheat,  and  at  last,  I  have  arrived  at  a  theory. 
Let  me  explain.  At  present,  all  our  California  wheat 
goes  to  Liverpool,  and  from  that  port  is  distributed  over 
the  world.  But  a  change  is  coming.  I  am  sure  of  it. 
You  young  men,"  he  turned  to  Presley,  Lyman,  and  Har- 
ran,  "  will  live  to  see  it.  Our  century  is  about  done.  The 
great  word  of  this  nineteenth  century  has  been  Produc- 
tion. The  great  word  of  the  twentieth  century  will  be — 
listen  to  me,  you  youngsters — Markets.  As  a  market  for 
our  Production — or  let  me  take  a  concrete  example — as 
a  market  for  our  Wheat,  Europe  is  played  out.  Popula- 
tion in  Europe  is  not  increasing  fast  enough  to  keep  up 
with  the  rapidity  of  our  production.  In  some  cases,  as 
in  France,  the  population  is  stationary.  We,  however, 
have  gone  on  producing  wheat  at  a  tremendous  rate. 

20 


306  The  Octopus 

The  result  is  over-production.  We  supply  more  than 
Europe  can  eat,  and  down  go  the  prices.  The  remedy 
is  not  in  the  curtailing  of  our  wheat  areas,  but  in  this,  we 
must  have  nezu  markets,  greater  markets.  For  years  we 
have  been  sending  our  wheat  from  East  to  West,  from 
California  to  Europe.  But  the  time  will  come  when  we 
must  send  it  from  West  to  East.  We  must  march  with 
the  course  of  empire,  not  against  it.  I  mean,  we  must 
look  to  China.  Rice  in  China  is  losing  its  nutritive  qual- 
ity. The  Asiatics,  though,  must  be  fed;  if  not  on  rice, 
then  on  wheat.  Why,  Mr.  Derrick,  if  only  one-half  the 
population  of  China  ate  a  half  ounce  of  flour  per  man 
per  day  all  the  wheat  areas  in  California  could  not  feed 
them.  Ah,  if  I  could  only  hammer  that  into  the  brains 
of  every  rancher  of  the  San  Joaquin,  yes,  and  of  every 
owner  of  every  bonanza  farm  in  Dakota  and  Minnesota. 
Send  your  wheat  to  China;  handle  it  yourselves;  do 
away  with  the  middleman;  break  up  the  Chicago  wheat 
pits  and  elevator  rings  and  mixing  houses.  When  in 
feeding  China  you  have  decreased  the  European  ship- 
ments, the  effect  is  instantaneous.  Prices  go  up  in  Eu- 
rope without  having  the  least  effect  upon  the  prices  in 
China.  We  hold  the  key,  we  have  the  wheat, — infinitely 
more  than  we  ourselves  can  eat.  Asia  and  Europe  must 
look  to  America  to  be  fed.  What  fatuous  neglect  of 
opportunity  to  continue  to  deluge  Europe  with  our  sur- 
plus food  when  the  East  trembles  upon  the  verge  of 
starvation !  " 

The  two  men,  Cedarquist  and  Magnus,  continued  the 
conversation  a  little  further.  The  manufacturer's  idea 
was  new  to  the  Governor.  He  was  greatly  interested. 
He  withdrew  from  the  conversation.  Thoughtful,  he 
leaned  back  in  his  place,  stroking  the  bridge  of  his  beak- 
like  nose  with  a  crooked  forefinger. 

Cedarquist  turned  to  Harran  and  began  asking  details 


A  Story  of  California  307 

as  to  the  conditions  of  the  wheat  growers  of  the  San 
Joaquin.  Lyman  still  maintained  an  attitude  of  polite 
aloofness,  yawning  occasionally  behind  three  fingers, and 
Presley  was  left  to  the  company  of  his  own  thoughts. 

There  had  been  a  day  when  the  affairs  and  grievances 
of  the  farmers  of  his  acquaintance — Magnus,  Annixter, 
Osterman,  and  old  Broderson — had  filled  him  only  with 
disgust.  His  mind  full  of  a  great,  vague  epic  poem 
of  the  West,  he  had  kept  himself  apart,  disdainful  of 
what  he  chose  to  consider  their  petty  squabbles.  But  the 
scene  in  Annixter's  harness  room  had  thrilled  and  up- 
lifted him.  He  was  palpitating  with  excitement  all 
through  the  succeeding  months.  He  abandoned  the  idea 
of  an  epic  poem.  In  six  months  he  had  not  written  a 
single  verse.  Day  after  day  he  trembled  with  excite- 
ment as  the  relations  between  the  Trust  and  League  be- 
came more  and  more  strained.  He  saw  the  matter  in  its 
true  light.  It  was  typical.  It  was  the  world-old  war 
between  Freedom  and  Tyranny,  and  at  times  his  hatred 
of  the  railroad  shook  him  like  a  crisp  and  withered 
reed,  while  the  languid  indifference  of  the  people  of 
the  State  to  the  quarrel  filled  him  with  a  blind  exas- 
peration. 

But,  as  he  had  once  explained  to  Vanamee,  he  must 
find  expression.  He  felt  that  he  would  suffocate  other- 
wise. He  had  begun  to  keep  a  journal.  As  the  inclina- 
tion spurred  him,  he  wrote  down  his  thoughts  and  ideas 
in  this,  sometimes  every  day,  sometimes  only  three  or 
four  times  a  month.  Also  he  flung  aside  his  books  of 
poems — Milton,  Tennyson,  Browning,  even  Homer — 
and  addressed  himself  to  Mill,  Malthus,  Young,  Poush- 
kin,  Henry  George,  Schopenhauer.  He  attacked  the  sub- 
ject of  Social  Inequality  with  unbounded  enthusiasm. 
He  devoured,  rather  than  read,  and  emerged  from  the  af- 
fair, his  mind  a  confused  jumble  of  conflicting  notions, 


308  The  Octopus 

sick  with  over-effort,  raging  against  injustice  and  op- 
pression, and  with  not  one  sane  suggestion  as  to  remedy 
or  redress. 

The  butt  of  his  cigarette  scorched  his  fingers  and 
roused  him  from  his  brooding.  In  the  act  of  lighting 
another,  he  glanced  across  the  room  and  was  surprised  to 
see  two  very  prettily  dressed  young  women  in  the  com- 
pany of  an  older  gentleman,  in  a  long  frock  coat,  stand- 
ing before  Hartrath's  painting,  examining  it,  their  heads 
upon  one  side. 

Presley  uttered  a  murmur  of  surprise.  He,  himself, 
was  a  member  of  the  club,  and  the  presence  of  women 
within  its  doors,  except  on  special  occasions,  was  not 
tolerated.  He  turned  to  Lyman  Derrick  for  an  explana- 
tion, but  this  other  had  also  seen  the  women  and  ab- 
ruptly exclaimed : 

"  I  declare,  I  had  forgotten  about  it.  Why,  this  is 
Ladies'  Day,  of  course." 

"  Why,  yes,"  interposed  Cedarquist,  glancing  at  the 
women' over  his  shoulder.  "  Didn't  you  know?  They  let 
'em  in  twice  a  year,  you  remember,  and  this  is  a  double 
occasion.  They  are  going  to  raffle  Hartrath's  picture, — 
for  the  benefit  of  the  Gingerbread  Fair.  Why,  you  are 
not  up  to  date,  Lyman.  This  is  a  sacred  and  religious 
rite, — an  important  public  event." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  murmured  Lyman.  He  found 
means  to  survey  Harran  and  Magnus.  Certainly,  neither 
his  father  nor  his  brother  were  dressed  for  the  function 
that  impended.  He  had  been  stupid.  Magnus  invariably 
attracted  attention,  and  now  with  his  trousers  strapped 
under  his  boots,  his  wrinkled  frock  coat — Lyman  twisted 
his  cuffs  into  sight  with  an  impatient,  nervous  move- 
ment of  his  wrists,  glancing  a  second  time  at  his  brother's 
pink  face,  forward  curling,  yellow  hair  and  clothes  of  a 
country  cut.  But  there  was  no  help  for  it.  He  wondered 


A  Story  of  California  309 

what  were  the  club  regulations  in  the  matter  of  bringing 
in  visitors  on  Ladies'  Day. 

"  Sure  enough,  Ladies'  Day,"  he  remarked,  "  I  am  very 
glad  you  struck  it,  Governor.  We  can  sit  right  where 
we  are.  I  guess  this  is  as  good  a  place  as  any  to  see  the 
crowd.  It's  a  good  chance  to  see  all  the  big  guns  of  the 
city.  Do  you  expect  your  people  here,  Mr.  Cedarquist?  " 

"  My  wife  may  come,  and  my  daughters,"  said\  the 
manufacturer. 

"  Ah,"  murmured  Presley,  "  so  much  the  better.  I 
was  going  to  give  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling  upon 
your  daughters,  Mr.  Cedarquist,  this  afternoon." 

"  You  can  save  your  carfare,  Pres,"  said  Cedarquist, 
"  you  will  see  them  here." 

No  doubt,  the  invitations  for  the  occasion  had  ap- 
pointed one  o'clock  as  the  time,  for  between  that  hour 
and  two,  the  guests  arrived  in  an  almost  unbroken 
stream.  From  their  point  of  vantage  in  the  round  win- 
dow of  the  main  room,  Magnus,  his  two  sons,  and  Pres- 
ley looked  on  very  interested.  Cedarquist  had  excused 
himself,  affirming  that  he  must  look  out  for  his  women 
folk. 

Of  every  ten  of  the  arrivals,  seven,  at  least,  were  ladies. 
They  entered  the  room — this  unfamiliar  masculine 
haunt,  where,  their  husbands,  brothers,  and  sons  spent  so 
much  of  their  time — with  a  certain  show  of  hesitancy 
and  little,  nervous,  oblique  glances,  moving  their  heads 
from  side  to  side  like  a  file  of  hens  venturing  into  a 
strange  barn.  They  came  in  groups,  ushered  by  a  single 
member  of  the  club,  doing  the  honours  with  effusive 
bows  and  polite  gestures,  indicating  the  various  objects 
of  interest,  pictures,  busts,  and  the  like,  that  decorated 
the  room. 

Fresh  from  his  recollections  of  Bonneville,  Guadala- 
jara, and  the  dance  in  Annixter's  barn,  Presley  was  as- 


3io  The  Octopus 

tonished  at  the  beauty  of  these  women  and  the  elegance 
of  their  toilettes.  The  crowd  thickened  rapidly.  A  mur- 
mur of  conversation  arose,  subdued,  gracious,  mingled 
with  the  soft  rustle  of  silk,  grenadines,  velvet.  The  scent 
of  delicate  perfumes  spread  in  the  air,  Violet  de  Parme, 
Peau  d'Espagne.  Colours  of  the  most  harmonious  blends 
appeared  and  disappeared  at  intervals  in  the  slowly  mov- 
ing press,  touches  of  lavender-tinted  velvets,  pale  violet 
crepes  and  cream-coloured  appliqued  laces. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  need  of  introductions.  Every- 
body appeared  to  be  acquainted.  There  was  no  awk- 
wardness, no  constraint.  The  assembly  disengaged  an 
impression  of  refined  pleasure.  On  every  hand,  innumer- 
able dialogues  seemed  to  go  forward  easily  and  naturally, 
without  break  or  interruption,  witty,  engaging,  the 
couple  never  at  a  loss  for  repartee.  A  third  party  was 
gracefully  included,  then  a  fourth.  Little  groups  were 
formed, — groups  that  divided  themselves,  or  melted  into 
other  groups,  or  disintegrated  again  into  isolated  pairs, 
or  lost  themselves  in  the  background  of  the  mass, — all 
without  friction,  without  embarrassment, — the  whole  af- 
fair going  forward  of  itself,  decorous,  tactful,  well-bred. 

At  a  distance,  and  not  too  loud,  a  stringed  orchestra 
sent  up  a  pleasing  hum.  Waiters,  with  brass  buttons  on 
their  full  dress  coats,  went  from  group  to  group,  silent, 
unobtrusive,  serving  salads  and  ices. 

But  the  focus  of  the  assembly  was  the  little  space  be- 
fore Hartrath's  painting.  It  was  called  "  A  Study  of  the 
Contra  Costa  Foothills,"  and  was  set  in  a  frame  of  nat- 
ural redwood,  the  bark  still  adhering.  It  was  conspicu- 
ously displayed  on  an  easel  at  the  right  of  the  entrance  to 
the  main  room  of  the  club,  and  was  very  large.  In  the 
foreground,  and  to  the  left,  under  the  shade  of  a  live-oak, 
stood  a  couple  of  reddish  cows,  knee-deep  in  a  patch  of 
yellow  poppies,  while  in  the  right-hand  corner,  to  bal- 


A  Story  of  California  3 1 1 

ance  the  composition,  was  placed  a  girl  in  a  pink  dress 
and  white  sunbonnet,  in  which  the  shadows  were  indi- 
cated by  broad  dashes  of  pale  blue  paint.  The  ladies  and 
young  girls  examined  the  production  with  little  murmurs 
of  admiration,  hazarding  remembered  phrases,  searching 
for  the  exact  balance  between  generous  praise  and  criti- 
cal discrimination,  expressing  their  opinions  in  the  mild 
technicalities  of  the  Art  Books  and  painting  classes. 
They  spoke  of  atmospheric  effects,  of  middle  distance,  of 
"  chiaro-oscuro"  of  fore-shortening,  of  the  decomposition 
of  light,  of  the  subordination  of  individuality  to  fidelity 
of  interpretation. 

One  tall  girl,  with  hair  almost  white  in  its  blondness, 
having  observed  that  the  handling  of  the  masses  re- 
minded her  strongly  of  Corot,  her  companion,  who  car- 
ried a  gold  lorgnette  by  a  chain  around  her  neck,  an- 
swered : 

"  Ah!  Millet,  perhaps,  but  not  Corot." 

This  verdict  had  an  immediate  success.  It  was  passed 
from  group  to  group.  It  seemed  to  imply  a  delicate  dis- 
tinction that  carried  conviction  at  once.  It  was  decided 
formally  that  the  reddish  brown  cows  in  the  picture  were 
reminiscent  of  Daubigny,  and  that  the  handling  of  the 
masses  was  altogether  Millet,  but  that  the  general  effect 
was  not  quite  Corot. 

Presley,  curious  to  see  the  painting  that  was  the  sub- 
ject of  so  much  discussion,  had  left  the  group  in  the 
round  window,  and  stood  close  by  Hartrath,  craning  his 
head  over  the  shoulders  of  the  crowd,  trying  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  reddish  cows,  the  milk-maid  and  the  blue 
painted  foothills.  He  was  suddenly  aware  of  Cedarquist's 
voice  in  his  ear,  and,  turning  about,  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  the  manufacturer,  his  wife  and  his  two 
daughters. 

There  was  a  meeting.     Salutations  were  exchanged, 


312  The  Octopus 

Presley  shaking  hands  all  around,  expressing  his  delight 
at  seeing  his  old  friends  once  more,  for  he  had  known 
the  family  from  his  boyhood,  Mrs.  Cedarquist  being  his 
aunt.  Mrs.  Cedarquist  and  her  two  daughters  declared 
that  the  air  of  Los  Muertos  must  certainly  have  done  him 
a  world  of  good.  He  was  stouter,  there  could  be  no 
doubt  of  it.  A  little  pale,  perhaps.  He  was  fatiguing 
himself  with  his  writing,  no  doubt.  Ah,  he  must  take 
care.  Health  was  everything,  after  all.  Had  he  been 
writing  any  more  verse  ?  Every  month  they  scanned  the 
magazines,  looking  for  his  name. 

Mrs.  Cedarquist  was  a  fashionable  woman,  the  presi- 
dent or  chairman  of  a  score  of  clubs.  She  was  forever 
running  after  fads,  appearing  continually  in  the  society 
wherein  she  moved  with  new  and  astounding  proteges — 
fakirs  whom  she  unearthed  no  one  knew  where,  discov- 
ering them  long  in  advance  of  her  companions.  Now  it 
was  a  Russian  Countess,  with  dirty  finger  nails,  who  trav- 
elled throughout  America  and  borrowed  money ;  now  an 
^Esthete  who  possessed  a  wonderful  collection  of  topaz 
gems>  who  submitted  decorative  schemes  for  the  interior 
arrangement  of  houses  and  who  "  received "  in  Mrs. 
Cedarquist's  drawing-rooms  dressed  in  a  white  velvet  cas- 
sock; now  a  widow  of  some  Mohammedan  of  Bengal  or 
Rajputana,  who  had  a  blue  spot  in  the  middle  of  her 
forehead  and  who  solicited  contributions  for  her  sisters 
in  affliction;  now  a  certain  bearded  poet,  recently  back 
from  the  Klondike;  now  a  decayed  musician  who  had 
been  ejected  from  a  young  ladies'  musical  conservatory 
of  Europe  because  of  certain  surprising  pamphlets  on 
free  love,  and  who  had  come  to  San  Francisco  to  intro- 
duce the  community  to  the  music  of  Brahms;  now  a 
Japanese  youth  who  wo're  spectacles  and  a  grey  flannel 
shirt  and  who,  at  intervals,  delivered  himself  of  the  most 
astonishing  poems,  vague,  unrhymed,  unmetrical  lucu- 


A  Story  of  California  3 1 3 

brations,  incoherent,  bizarre;  now  a  Christian  Scientist, 
a  lean,  grey  woman,  whose  creed  was  neither  Christian 
nor  scientific ;  now  a  university  professor,  with  the  brist- 
ling beard  of  an  anarchist  chief-of-section,  and  a  roaring,, 
guttural  voice,  whose  intenseness  left  him  gasping  and 
apoplectic ;  now  a  civilised  Cherokee  with  a  mission ;  now 
a  female  elocutionist,  whose  forte  was  Byron's  Songs  of 
Greece;  now  a  high  caste  Chinaman;  now  a  miniature 
painter;  now  a  tenor,  a  pianiste,  a  mandolin  player,  a 
missionary,  a  drawing  master,  a  virtuoso,  a  collector,  an 
Armenian,  a  botanist  with  a  new  flower,  a  critic  with  a 
new  theory,  a  doctor  with  a  new  treatment. 

And  all  these  people  had  a  veritable  mania  for  declama- 
tion and  fancy  dress.  The  Russian  Countess  gave  talks 
on  the  prisons  of  Siberia,  wearing  the  headdress  and 
pinchbeck  ornaments  of  a  Slav  bride ;  the  ^Esthete,  in  his 
white  cassock,  gave  readings  on  obscure  questions  of  art 
and  ethics.  The  widow  of  India,  in  the  costume  of  her 
caste,  described  the  social  life  of  her  people  at  home.  The 
bearded  poet,  perspiring  in  furs  and  boots  of  reindeer 
skin,  declaimed  verses  of  his  own  composition  about  the 
wild  life  of  the  Alaskan  mining  camps.  The  Japanese 
youth,  in  the  silk  robes  of  the  Samurai  two-sworded 
nobles,  read  from  his  own  works — "The  flat-bordered 
earth,  nailed  down  at  night,  rusting  under  the  darkness," 
''  The  brave,  upright  rains  that  came  down  like  errands 
from  iron-bodied  yore-time."  The  Christian  Scientist,  in 
funereal,  impressive  black,  discussed  the  contra-will  and 
pan-psychic  hylozoism.  The  university  professor  put  on 
a  full  dress  suit  and  lisle  thread  gloves  at  three  in  the 
afternoon  and  before  literary  clubs  and  circles  bellowed 
extracts  from  Goethe  and  Schiler  in  the  German,  shak- 
ing his  fists,  purple  with  vehemence.  The  Cherokee,  ar- 
rayed in  fringed  buckskin  and  blue  beads,  rented  from  a 
costumer,  intoned  folk  songs  of  his  people  in  the  vernacu- 


314  The  Octopus 

lar.  The  elocutionist  in  cheese-cloth  toga  and  tin  brace- 
lets, rendered  "  The  Isles  of  Greece,  where  burning  Sap- 
pho loved  and  sung."  The  Chinaman,  in  the  robes  of  a 
mandarin,  lectured  on  Confucius.  The  Armenian,  in  fez 
and  baggy  trousers,  spoke  of  the  Unspeakable  Turk.  The 
mandolin  player,  dressed  like  a  bull  fighter,  held  mu- 
sical conversaziones,  interpreting  the  peasant  songs  of 
Andalusia. 

It  was  the  Fake,  the  eternal,  irrepressible  Sham;  glib, 
nimble,  ubiquitous,  tricked  out  in  all  the  paraphernalia 
of  imposture,  an  endless  defile  of  charlatans  that  passed 
interminably  before  the  gaze  of  the  city,  marshalled  by 
"  lady  presidents/'  exploited  by  clubs  of  women,  by  liter- 
ary societies,  reading  circles,  and  culture  organisations. 
The  attention  the  Fake  received,  the  time  devoted  to  it, 
the  money  which  it  absorbed,  were  incredible.  It  was  all 
one  that  impostor  after  impostor  was  exposed;  it  was  all 
one  that  the  clubs,  the  circles,  the  societies  were  proved 
beyond  doubt  to  have  been  swindled.  The  more  the  Phil- 
istine press  of  the  city  railed  and  guyed,  the  more  the 
women  rallied  to  the  defence  of  their  protege  of  the  hour. 
That  their  favourite  was  persecuted,  was  to  them  a 
veritable  rapture.  Promptly  they  invested  the  apostle  of 
culture  with  the  glamour  of  a  martyr. 

The  fakirs  worked  the  community  as  shell-game  trick- 
sters work  a  county  fair,  departing  with  bursting  pocket- 
books,  passing  on  the  word  to  the  next  in  line,  assured 
that  the  place  was  not  worked  out,  knowing  well  that 
there  was  enough  for  all. 

More  frequently  the  public  of  the  city,  unable  to  think 
of  more  than  one  thing  at  one  time,  prostrated  itself  at  the 
feet  of  a  single  apostle,  but  at  other  moments,  such  as  the 
present,  when  a  Flower  Festival  or  a  Million-Dollar  Fair 
aroused  enthusiasm  in  all  quarters,  the  occasion  was  one 
of  gala  for  the  entire  Fake.  The  decayed  professors, 


A  Story  of  California  315 

virtuosi,  litterateurs,  and  artists  thronged  to  the  place  en 
masse.  Their  clamour  filled  all  the  air.  On  every  hand 
one  heard  the  scraping  of  violins,  the  tinkling  of  mando- 
lins, the  suave  accents  of  "  art  talks,"  the  incoherencies 
of  poets,  the  declamation  of  elocutionists,  the  inarticulate 
wanderings  of  the  Japanese,  the  confused  mutterings  of 
the  Cherokee,  the  guttural  bellowing  of  the  German  uni- 
versity professor,  all  in  the  name  of  the  Million-Dollar 
Fair.  Money  to  the  extent  of  hundreds  of  thousands 
was  set  in  motion. 

Mrs.  Cedarquist  was  busy  from  morning  until  night. 
One  after  another,  she  was  introduced  to  newly  arrived 
fakirs.  To  each  poet,  to  each  litterateur,  to  each  profes- 
sor she  addressed  the  same  question : 

"  How  long  have  you  known  you  had  this  power  ?  " 

She  spent  her  days  in  one  quiver  of  excitement  and 
jubilation.  She  was  "in  the  movement."  The  people 
of  the  city  were  awakening  to  a  Realisation  of  the  Beauti- 
ful, to  a  sense  of  the  higher  needs  of  life.  This  was  Art, 
this  was  Literature,  this  was  Culture  and  Refinement. 
The  Renaissance  had  appeared  in  the  West. 

She  was  a  short,  rather  stout,  red-faced,  very  much 
over-dressed  little  woman  of  some  fifty  years.  She  was 
rich  in  her  own  name,  even  before  her  marriage,  being  a 
relative  of  Shelgrim  himself  and  on  familiar  terms  with 
the  great  financier  and  his  family.  Her  husband,  while 
deploring  the  policy  of  the  railroad,  saw  no  good  reason 
for  quarrelling  with  Shelgrim,  and  on  more  than  one 
occasion  had  dined  at  his  house. 

On  this  occasion,  delighted  that  she  had  come  upon  a 
"  minor  poet,"  she  insisted  upon  presenting  him  to  Hart- 
rath. 

"  You  two  should  have  so  much  in  common,"  she  ex- 
plained. 

Presley  shook  the  flaccid  hand  of  the  artist,  murmur- 


316  The  Octopus 

ing  conventionalities,  while  Mrs.  Cedarquist  hastened  to 
say: 

"  I  am  sure  you  know  Mr.  Presley's  verse,  Mr.  Hart- 
rath.  You  should,  believe  me.  You  two  have  much  in 
common.  I  can  see  so  much  that  is  alike  in  your  modes 
of  interpreting  nature.  In  Mr.  Presley's  sonnet,  '  The 
Better  Part,'  there  is  the  same  note  as  in  your  picture, 
the  same  sincerity  of  tone,  the  same  subtlety  of  touch,  the 
same  nuances, — ah." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Madame,"  murmured  the  artist,  inter- 
rupting Presley's  impatient  retort ;  "  I  am  a  mere  bun- 
gler. You  don't  mean  quite  that,  I  am  sure.  I  am  too 
sensitive.  It  is  my  cross.  Beauty,"  he  closed  his  sore  eyes 
with  a  little  expression  of  pain,  "  beauty  unmans  me." 

But  Mrs.  Cedarquist  was  not  listening.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  artist's  luxuriant  hair,  a  thick  and  glossy 
mane,  that  all  but  covered  his  coat  collar. 

"  Leonine  !  "  she  murmured — "  leonine  !  Like  Sam- 
son of  old." 

However,  abruptly  bestirring  herself,  she  exclaimed  a 
second  later: 

"  But  I  must  run  away.  I  am  selling  tickets  for  you 
this  afternoon,  Mr.  Hartrath.  I  am  having  such  suc- 
cess. Twenty-five  already.  Mr.  Presley,  you  will  take 
two  chances,  I  am  sure,  and,  oh,  by  the  way,  I  have  such 
good  news.  You  know  I  am  one  of  the  lady  members  of 
the  subscription  committee  for  our  Fair,  and  you  know 
we  approached  Mr.  Shelgrim  for  a  donation  to  help 
along.  Oh,  such  a  liberal  patron,  a  real  Lorenzo  di'  Med- 
ici. In  the  name  of  the  Pacific  and  Southwestern  he  has 
subscribed,  think  of  it,  five  thousand  dollars ;  and  yet  they 
will  talk  of  the  meanness  of  the  railroad." 

"  Possibly  it  is  to  his  interest,"  murmured  Presley. 
"  The  fairs  and  festivals  bring  people  to  the  city  over 
his  railroad." 


A  Story  of  California  317 

But  the  others  turned  on  him,  expostulating. 

"  Ah,  you  Philistine,"  declared  Mrs.  Cedarquist.  "  And 
this  from  you,  Presley;  to  attribute  such  base  mo- 
tives  " 

"  If  the  poets  become  materialised,  Mr.  Presley,"  de- 
clared Hartrath,  "  what  can  we  say  to  the  people?  " 

"  And  Shelgrim  encourages  your  million-dollar  fairs 
and  fetes,"  said  a  voice  at  Presley's  elbow,  "  because  it  is 
throwing  dust  in  the  people's  eyes." 

The  group  turned  about  and  saw  Cedarquist,  who  had 
come  up  unobserved  in  time  to  catch  the  drift  of  the  talk. 
But  he  spoke  without  bitterness ;  there  was  even  a  good- 
humoured  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  he  continued,  smiling,  "  our  dear  Shelgrim  pro- 
motes your  fairs,  not  only  as  Pres  says,  because  it  Is 
money  in  his  pocket,  but  because  it  amuses  the  people, 
distracts  their  attention  from  the  doings  of  his  railroad. 
When  Beatrice  was  a  baby  and  had  little  colics,  I  used  to 
jingle  my  keys  in  front  of  her  nose,  and  it  took  her  atten- 
tion from  the  pain  in  her  tummy;  so  Shelgrim." 

The  others  laughed  good-humouredly,  protesting, 
nevertheless,  and  Mrs.  Cedarquist  shook  her  finger  in 
warning  at  the  artist  and  exclaimed: 

"  The  Philistines  be  upon  thee,  Samson !  " 

"  By  the  way,"  observed  Hartrath,  willing  to  change 
the  subject,  "  I  hear  you  are  on  the  Famine  Relief  Com- 
mittee. Does  your  work  progress  ?  " 

"  Oh,  most  famously,  I  assure  you,"  she  said.  "  Such 
a  movement  as  we  have  started.  Those  poor  creatures. 
The  photographs  of  them  are  simply  dreadful.  I  had 
the  committee  to  luncheon  the  other  day  and  we  passed 
them  around."  We  are  getting  subscriptions  from  all  over 
the  State,  and  Mr.  Cedarquist  is  to  arrange  for  the  ship." 

The  Relief  Committee  in  question  was  one  of  a  great 
number  that  had  been  formed  in  Calif oniia — and  all  over 


318  The  Octopus 

the  Union,  for  the  matter  of  that — to  provide  relief  for 
the  victims  of  a  great  famine  in  Central  India.  The  whole 
world  had  been  struck  with  horror  at  the  reports  of  suf- 
fering and  mortality  in  the  affected  districts,  and  had 
hastened  to  send  aid.  Certain  women  of  San  Francisco, 
with  Mrs.  Cedarquist  at  their  head,  had  organised  a 
number  of  committees,  but  the  manufacturer's  wife 
turned  the  meetings  of  these  committees  into  social  af- 
fairs— luncheons,  teas,  where  one  discussed  the  ways  and 
means  of  assisting  the  starving  Asiatics  over  teacups  and 
plates  of  salad. 

Shortly  afterward  a  mild  commotion  spread  through- 
out the  assemblage  of  the  club's  guests.  The  drawing  of 
the  numbers  in  the  raffle  was  about  to  be  made.  Hart- 
rath,  in  a  flurry  of  agitation,  excused  himself.  Cedar- 
quist took  Presley  by  the  arm. 

"  Pres,  let's  get  out  of  this,"  he  said.  "  Come  into  the 
wine  room  and  I  will  shake  you  for  a  glass  of  sherry." 

They  had  some  difficulty  in  extricating  themselves. 
The  main  room  where  the  drawing  was  to  take  place 
suddenly  became  densely  thronged.  All  the  guests 
pressed  eagerly  about  the  table  near  the  picture,  upon 
which  one  of  the  hall  boys  had  just  placed  a  ballot  box 
containing  the  numbers.  The  ladies,  holding  their  tickets 
in  their  hands,  pushed  forward.  A  staccato  chatter  of 
excited  murmurs  arose. 

"  What  became  of  Harran  and  Lyman  and  the  Gover- 
nor?" inquired  Presley. 

Lyman  had  disappeared,  alleging  a  business  engage- 
ment, but  Magnus  and  his  younger  son  had  retired  to 
the  library  of  the  club  on  the  floor  above.  It  was  almost 
deserted.  They  were  deep  in  earnest  conversation. 

"  Harran,"  said  the  Governor,  with  decision,  "  there  is 
a  deal,  there,  in  what  Cedarquist  says.  Our  wheat  to 
China,  hey,  boy?" 


A  Story  of  California  319 

"  It  is  certainly  worth  thinking  of,  sir." 

"  It  appeals  to  me,  boy ;  it  appeals  to  me.  It's  big  and 
there's  a  fortune  in  it.  Big  chances  mean  big  returns; 
and  I  know — your  old  father  isn't  a  back  number  yet, 
Harran — I  may  not  have  so  wide  an  outlook  as  our  friend 
Cedarquist,  but  I  am  quick  to  see  my  chance.  Boy,  the 
whole  East  is  opening,  disintegrating  before  the  Anglo- 
Saxon.  It  is  time  that  bread  stuffs,  as  well,  should  make 
markets  for  themselves  in  the  Orient.  Just  at  this  mo- 
ment, too,  when  Lyman  will  scale  down  freight  rates  so 
we  can  haul  to  tidewater  at  little  cost." 

Magnus  paused  again,  his  frown  beetling,  and  in  the 
silence  the  excited  murmur  from  the  main  room  of  the 
club,  the  soprano  chatter  of  a  multitude  of  women,  found 
its  way  to  the  deserted  library. 

"  I  believe  it's  worth  looking  into,  Governor,"  asserted 
Harran. 

Magnus  rose,  and,  his  hands  behind  him,  paced  the 
floor  of  the  library  a  couple  of  times,  his  imagination  all 
stimulated  and  vivid.  The  great  gambler  perceived  his 
Chance,  the  kaleidoscopic  shifting  of  circumstances  that 
made  a  Situation.  It  had  come  silently,  unexpectedly. 
He  had  not  seen  its  approach.  Abruptly  he  woke  one 
morning  to  see  the  combination  realised.  But  also  he 
saw  a  vision.  A  sudden  and  abrupt  revolution  in  the 
Wheat.  A  new  world  of  markets  discovered,  the  matter 
as  important  as  the  discovery  of  America.  The  torrent 
of  wheat  was  to  be  diverted,  flowing  back  upon  itself  in 
a  sudden,  colossal  eddy,  stranding  the  middleman,  the 
entre-preneur,  the  elevator-  and  mixing-house  men  dry 
and  despairing,  their  occupation  gone.  He  saw  the  farmer 
suddenly  emancipated,  the  world's  food  no  longer  at  the 
mercy  of  the  speculator,  thousands  upon  thousands  of 
men  set  free  of  the  grip  of  Trust  and  ring  and  monopoly 
acting  for  themselves,  selling  their  own  wheat,  organis- 


320  The  Octopus 

ing  into  one  gigantic  trust,  themselves,  sending  their 
agents  to  all  the  entry  ports  of  China.  Himself,  Annix- 
ter,  Broderson  and  Osterman  would  pool  their  issues. 
He  would  convince  them  of  the  magnificence  of  the  new 
movement.  They  would  be  its  pioneers.  Harran  would 
be  sent  to  Hong  Kong  to  represent  the  four.  They  would 
charter — probably  buy — a  ship,  perhaps  one  of  Cedar- 
quist's,  American  built,  the  nation's  flag  at  the  peak,  and 
the  sailing  of  that  ship,  gorged  with  the  crops  from 
Broderson's  and  Osterman's  ranches,  from  Quien  Sabe 
and  Los  Muertos,  would  be  like  the  sailing  of  the  cara- 
vels from  Palos.  It  would  mark  a  new  era;  it  would 
make  an  epoch. 

With  this  vision  still  expanding  before  the  eye  of  his 
mind,  Magnus,  with  Harran  at  his  elbow,  prepared  to 
depart. 

They  descended  to  the  lower  floor  and  involved  them- 
selves for  a  moment  in  the  throng  of  fashionables  that 
blocked  the  hallway  and  the  entrance  to  the  main  room, 
where  the  numbers  of  the  raffle  were  being  drawn.  Near 
the  head  of  the  stairs  they  encountered  Presley  and 
Cedarquist,  who  had  just  come  out  of  the  wine  room. 

Magnus,  still  on  fire  with  the  new  idea,  pressed  a  few 
questions  upon  the  manufacturer  before  bidding  him 
good-bye.  He  wished  to  talk  further  upon  the  great  sub- 
'ject,  interested  as  to  details,  but  Cedarquist  was  vague  in 
his  replies.  He  was  no  farmer,  he  hardly  knew  wheat 
when  he  saw  it,  only  he  knew  the  trend  of  the  world's 
affairs ;  he  felt  them  to  be  setting  inevitably  east- 
ward. 

However,  his  very  vagueness  was  a  further  inspira- 
tion to  the  Governor.  He  swept  details  aside.  He  saw 
only  the  grand  coup,  the  huge  results,  the  East  con- 
quered, the  march  of  empire  rolling  westward,  finally  ar- 
riving at  its  starting  point,  the  vague,  mysterious  Orient. 


A  Story  of  California  321 

He  saw  his  wheat,  like  the  crest  of  an  advancing  billow, 
crossing  the  Pacific,  bursting  upon  Asia,  flooding  the 
Orient  in  a  golden  torrent.  It  was  the  new  era.  He  had 
lived  to  see  the  death  of  the  old  and  the  birth  of  the  new ; 
first  the  mine,  now  the  ranch;  first  gold,  now  wheat. 
Once  again  he  became  the  pioneer,  hardy,  brilliant,  tak- 
ing colossal  chances,  blazing  the  way,  grasping  a  fortune 
— a  million  in  a  single  day.  All  the  bigness  of  his  nature 
leaped  up  again  within  him.  At  the  magnitude  of  the  in- 
spiration he  felt  young  again,  indomitable,  the  leader  at 
last,  king  of  his  fellows,  wresting  from  fortune  at  this 
eleventh  hour,  before  his  old  age,  the  place  of  high  com- 
mand which  so  long  had  been  denied  him.  At  last  he 
could  achieve. 

Abruptly  Magnus  was  aware  that  some  one  had  spoken 
his  name.  He  looked  about  and  saw  behind  him,  at  a 
little  distance,  two  gentlemen,  strangers  to  him.  They, 
had  withdrawn  from  the  crowd  into  a  little  recess.  Evi- 
dently having  no  women  to  look  after,  they  had  lost  in- 
terest in  the  afternoon's  affair.  Magnus  realised  that 
they  had  not  seen  him.  One  of  them  was  reading  aloud 
to  his  companion  from  an  evening  edition  of  that  day's 
newspaper.  It  was  in  the  course  of  this  reading  that 
Magnus  caught  the  sound  of  his  name.  He  paused,  lis- 
tening, and  Presley,  Harran  and  Cedarquist  followed  his 
example.  Soon  they  all  understood.  They  were  listen- 
ing to  the  report  of  the  judge's  decision,  for  which 
Magnus  was  waiting — the  decision  in  the  case  of  the 
League  vs.  the  Railroad.  For  the  moment,  the  polite 
clamour  of  the  raffle  hushed  itself — the  winning  number 
was  being  drawn.  The  guests  held  their  breath,  and  in 
the  ensuing  silence  Magnus  and  the  others  heard  these 
words  distinctly: 

"  ....  It  follows  that  the  title  to  the  lands  in 
question  is  in  the  plaintiff — the  Pacific  and  Southwest- 


322  The  Octopus 

ern  Railroad,  and  the  defendants  have  no  title,  and  their 
possession  is  wrongful.  There  must  be  findings  and 
judgment  for  the  plaintiff,  and  it  is  so  ordered." 

In  spite  of  himself,  Magnus  paled.  Harran  shut  his 
teeth  with  an  oath.  Their  exaltation  of  the  previous  mo- 
ment collapsed  like  a  pyramid  of  cards.  The  vision  of 
the  new  movement  of  the  wheat,  the  conquest  of  the 
East,  the  invasion  of  the  Orient,  seemed  only  the  flimsiest 
mockery.  With  a  brusque  wrench,  they  were  snatched 
back  to  reality.  Between  them  and  the  vision,  between 
the  fecund  San  Joaquin,  reeking  with  fruitfulness,  and 
the  millions  of  Asia  crowding  toward  the  verge  of  starva- 
tion, lay  the  iron-hearted  monster  of  steel  and  steam,  im- 
placable, insatiable,  huge — its  entrails  gorged  with  the 
life  blood  that  it  sucked  from  an  entire  commonwealth, 
its  ever  hungry  maw  glutted  with  the  harvests  that 
should  have  fed  the  famished  bellies  of  the  whole  world 
of  the  Orient. 

But  abruptly,  while  the  four  men  stood  there,  gaz- 
ing into  each  other's  faces,  a  vigorous  hand-clapping 
broke  out.  The  raffle  of  Hartrath's  picture  was  over, 
and  as  Presley  turned  about  he  saw  Mrs.  Cedarquist 
and  her  two  daughters  signalling  eagerly  to  the  manu- 
facturer, unable  to  reach  him  because  of  the  interven- 
ing crowd.  Then  Mrs.  Cedarquist  raised  her  voice  and 
cried : 

"  I've  won.    I've  won." 

Unnoticed,  and  with  but  a  brief  word  to  Cedarquist, 
Magnus  and  Harran  went  down  the  marble  steps  leading 
to  the  street  door,  silent,  Harran's  arm  tight  around  his 
father's  shoulder. 

At  once  the  orchestra  struck  into  a  lively  air.  A  re- 
newed murmur  of  conversation  broke  out,  and  Cedar- 
quist, as  he  said  good-bye  to  Presley,  looked  first  at  the 
retreating  figures  of  the  ranchers,  then  at  the  gayly 


A  Story  of  California  323 

dressed  throng  of  beautiful  women  and  debonair  young 
men,  and  indicating  the  whole  scene  with  a  single  gesture, 
said,  smiling  sadly  as  he  spoke: 

"  Not   a   city,    Presley,    not    a   city,   but   a   Midway 
Plaisance." 


II 


Underneath  the  Long  Trestle  where  Broderson  Creek 
cut  the  line  of  the  railroad  and  the  Upper  Road,  the 
ground  was  low  and  covered  with  a  second  growth  of 
grey  green  willows.  Along  the  borders  of  the  creek 
were  occasional  marshy  spots,  and  now  and  then  Hilma 
Tree  came  here  to  gather  water-cresses,  which  she  made 
into  salads. 

The  place  was  picturesque,  secluded,  an  oasis  of  green 
shade  in  all  the  limitless,  flat  monotony  of  the  surround- 
ing wheat  lands.  The  creek  had  eroded  deep  into  the  lit- 
tle gully,  and  no  matter  how  hot  it  was  on  the  baking, 
shimmering  levels  of  the  ranches  above,  down  here  one 
always  found  one's  self  enveloped  in  an  odorous,  moist 
coolness.  From  time  to  time,  the  incessant  murmur  of 
the  creek,  pouring  over  and  around  the  larger  stones, 
was  interrupted  by  the  thunder  of  trains  roaring  out 
upon  the  trestle  overhead,  passing  on  with  the  furious 
gallop  of  their  hundreds  of  iron  wheels,  leaving  in  the 
air  a  taint  of  hot  oil,  acrid  smoke,  and  reek  of  escaping 
steam. 

On  a  certain  afternoon,  in  the  spring  of  the  year, 
Hilma  was  returning  to  Quien  Sabe  from  Hooven's  by 
the  trail  that  led  from  Los  Muertos  to  Annixter's  ranch 
houses,  under  the  trestle.  She  had  spent  the  afternoon 
with  Minna  Hooven,  who,  for  the  time  being,  was  kept 
indoors  because  of  a  wrenched  ankle.  As  Hilma  de- 
scended into  the  gravel  flats  and  thickets  of  willows  un- 
derneath the  trestle,  she  decided  that  she  would  gather 


A  Story  of  California  325 

\ 

some  cresses  for  her  supper  that  night.  She  found  a  spot 
around  the  base  of  one  of  the  supports  of  the  trestle 
where  the  cresses  grew  thickest,  and  plucked  a  couple  of 
handfuls,  washing  them  in  the  creek  and  pinning  them 
up  in  her  handkerchief.  It  made  a  little,  round,  cold 
bundle,  and  Hilma,  warm  from  her  walk,  found  a  de- 
licious enjoyment  in  pressing  the  damp  ball  of  it  to  her 
cheeks  and  neck. 

For  all  the  change  that  Annixter  had  noted  in  her  upon 
the  occasion  of  the  barn  dance,  Hilma  remained  in  many 
things  a  young  child.  She  was  never  at  loss  for  enjoy- 
ment, and  could  always  amuse  herself  when  left  alone. 
Just  now,  she  chose  to  drink  from  the  creek,  lying  prone 
on  the  ground,  her  face  half-buried  in  the  water,  and  this, 
not  because  she  was  thirsty,  but  because  it  was  a  new 
way  to  drink.  She  imagined  herself  a  belated  traveller,  a 
poor  girl,  an  outcast,  quenching  her  thirst  at  the  wayside 
brook,  her  little  packet  of  cresses  doing  duty  for  a  bundle 
of  clothes.  Night  was  coming  on.  Perhaps  it  would 
storm.  She  had  nowhere  to  go.  She  would  apply  at  a 
hut  for  shelter. 

Abruptly,  the  temptation  to  dabble  her  feet  in  the  creek 
presented  itself  to  her.  Always  she  had  liked  to  play  in 
the  water.  What  a  delight  now  to  take  off  her  shoes  and 
stockings  and  wade  out  into  the  shallows  near  the  bank  t 
She  had  worn  low  shoes  that  afternoon,  and  the  dust  of 
the  trail  had  filtered  in  above  the  edges.  At  times,  she 
felt  the  grit  and  grey  sand  on  the  soles  of  her  feet,  and 
the  sensation  had  set  her  teeth  on  edge.  What  a  delicious 
alternative  the  cold,  clean  water  suggested,  and  how  easy 
it  would  be  to  do  as  she  pleased  just  then,  if  only  she 
were  a  little  girl.  In  the  end,  it  was  stupid  to  be  grown 
up. 

Sitting  upon  the  bank,  one  finger  tucked  into  the  heel 
of  her  shoe,  Hilma  hesitated.  Suppose  a  train  should 


326  The  Octopus 

come !  She  fancied  she  could  see  the  engineer  leaning 
from  the  cab  with  a  great  grin  on  his  face,  or  the  brake- 
man  shouting  gibes  at  her  from  the  platform.  Abruptly 
she  blushed  scarlet.  The  blood  throbbed  in  her  temples. 
Her  heart  beat. 

Since  the  famous  evening  of  the  barn  dance,  Annixter 
had  spoken  to  her  but  twice.  Hilma  no  longer  looked 
after  the  ranch  house  these  days.  The  thought  of  setting 
foot  within  Annixter's  dining-room  and  bed-room  ter- 
rified her,  and  in  the  end  her  mother  had  taken  over  that 
part  of  her  work.  Of  the  two  meetings  with  the  master 
of  Quien  Sabe,  one  had  been  a  mere  exchange  of  good 
mornings  as  the  two  happened  to  meet  over  by  the  ar- 
tesian well;  the  other,  more  complicated,  had  occurred 
in  the  dairy-house  again,  Annixter,  pretending  to  look 
over  the  new  cheese  press,  asking  about  details  of  her 
work.  When  this  had  happened  on  that  previous  occa- 
sion, ending  with  Annixter's  attempt  to  kiss  her,  Hilma 
had  been  talkative  enough,  chattering  on  from  one  sub- 
ject to  another,  never  at  a  loss  for  a  theme.  But  this 
last  time  was  a  veritable  ordeal.  No  sooner  had  Annixter 
appeared  than  her  heart  leaped  and  quivered  like  that  of 
the  hound-harried  doe.  Her  speech  failed  her.  Through- 
out the  whole  brief  interview  she  had  been  miserably 
tongue-tied,  stammering  monosyllables,  confused,  hor- 
ribly awkward,  and  when  Annixter  had  gone  away,  she 
had  fled  to  her  little  room,  and  bolting  the  door,  had 
flung  herself  face  downward  on  the  bed  and  wept  as 
though  her  heart  were  breaking,  she  did  not  know  why. 

That  Annixter  had  been  overwhelmed  with  business 
all  through  the  winter  was  an  inexpressible  relief  to 
Hilma.  His  affairs  took  him  away  from  the  ranch  con- 
tinually. He  was  absent  sometimes  for  weeks,  making 
trips  to  San  Francisco,  or  to  Sacramento,  or  to  Bonne- 
ville.  Perhaps  he  was  forgetting  her,  overlooking  her; 


A  Story  of  California  327 

and  while,  at  first,  she  told  herself  that  she  asked  nothing 
better,  the  idea  of  it  began  to  occupy  her  mind.  She 
began  to  wonder  if  it  was  really  so. 

She  knew  his  trouble.  Everybody  did.  The  news  of 
the  sudden  forward  movement  of  the  Railroad's  forces, 
inaugurating  the  campaign,  had  flared  white-hot  and 
blazing  all  over  the  country  side.  To  Hilma's  notion, 
Annixter's  attitude  was  heroic  beyond  all  expression. 
His  courage  in  facing  the  Railroad,  as  he  had  faced  De- 
laney  in  the  barn,  seemed  to  her  the  pitch  of  sublimity. 
She  refused  to  see  any  auxiliaries  aiding  him  in  his  fight. 
To  her  imagination,  the  great  League,  which  all  the 
ranchers  were  joining,  was  a  mere  form.  Single-handed, 
Annixter  fronted  the  monster.  But  for  him  the  corpora- 
tion would  gobble  Quien  Sabe,  as  a  whale  would  a  min- 
now. He  was  a  hero  who  stood  between  them  all  and  de- 
struction. He  was  a  protector  of  her  family.  He  was 
her  champion.  She  began  to  mention  him  in  her  prayers 
every  night,  adding  a  further  petition  to  the  effect  that 
he  would  become  a  good  man,  and  that  he  should  not 
swear  so  much,  and  that  he  should  never  meet  Delaney 
again. 

However,  as  Hilma  still  debated  the  idea  of  bathing 
her  feet  in  the  creek,  a  train  did  actually  thunder  past 
overhead — the  regular  evening  Overland, — the  through 
express,  that  never  stopped  between  Bakersfield  and 
Fresno.  It  stormed  by  with  a  deafening  clamour,  and 
a  swirl  of  smoke,  in  a  long  succession  of  way-coaches, 
and  chocolate  coloured  Pullmans,  grimy  with  the  dust  of 
the  great  deserts  of  the  Southwest.  The  quivering  of  the 
trestle's  supports  set  a  tremble  in  the  ground  underfoot. 
The  thunder  of  wheels  drowned  all  sound  of  the  flowing 
of  the  creek,  and  also  the  noise  of  the  buckskin  mare's 
hoofs  descending  from  the  trail  upon  the  gravel  about 
the  creek,  so  that  Hilma,  turning  about  after  the  passage 


328  The  Octopus 

of  the  train,  saw  Annixter  close  at  hand,  with  the  abrupt- 
ness of  a  vision. 

He  was  looking  at  her,  smiling  as  he  rarely  did,  the 
firm  line  of  his  out-thrust  lower  lip  relaxed  good- 
humouredly.  He  had  taken  off.  his  campaign  hat  to  her, 
and  though  his  stiff,  yellow  hair  was  twisted  into  a 
bristling  mop,  the  little  persistent  tuft  on  the  crown, 
usually  defiantly  erect  as  an  Apache's  scalp-lock,  was 
nowhere  in  sight. 

"Hello,  it's  you,  is  it,  Miss  Hilma?"  he  exclaimed, 
getting  down  from  the  buckskin,  and  allowing  her  to 
drink. 

Hilma  nodded,  scrambling  to  her  feet,  dusting  her 
skirt  with  nervous  pats  of  both  hands. 

Annixter  sat  down  on  a  great  rock  close  by  and,  the 
loop  of  the  bridle  over  his  arm,  lit  a  cigar,  and  began  to 
talk.  He  complained  of  the  heat  of  the  day,  the  bad 
condition  of  the  Lower  Road,  over  which  he  had  come 
on  his  way  from  a  committee  meeting  of  the  League  at 
Los  Muertos;  of  the  slowness  of  the  work  on  the  irri- 
gating ditch,  and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  of  the  general 
hard  times. 

"  Miss  Hilma,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  never  you  marry  a 
ranchman.  He's  never  out  of  trouble." 

Hilma  gasped,  her  eyes  widening  till  the  full  round 
of  the  pupil  was  disclosed.  Instantly,  a  certain,  inexplic- 
able guiltiness  overpowered  her  with  incredible  confusion. 
Her  hands  trembled  as  she  pressed  the  bundle  of  cresses 
into  a  hard  ball  between  her  palms. 

Annixter  continued  to  talk.  He  was  disturbed  and  ex- 
cited himself  at  this  unexpected  meeting.  Never  through 
^11  the  past  winter  months  of  strenuous  activity,  the  fever 
of  political  campaigns, the  harrowing  delays  and  ultimate 
defeat  in  one  law  court  after  another,  had  he  forgotten 
the  look  in  Hilnia's  face  as  he  stood  with  one  arm  around 


A  Story  of  California  329 

her  on  the  floor  of  his  barn,  in  peril  of  his  life  from  the 
buster's  revolver.  That  dumb  confession  of  Hilma's 
wide-open  eyes  had  been  enough  for  him.  Yet,  some- 
how, he  never  had  had  a  chance  to  act  upon  it.  During 
the  short  period  when  he  could  be  on  his  ranch  Hilma 
had  always  managed  to  avoid  him.  Once,  even,  she  had 
spent  a  month,  about  Christmas  time,  with  her  mother's 
father,  who  kept  a  hotel  in  San  Francisco. 

Now,  to-day,  however,  he  had  her  all  to  himself.  He 
would  put  an  end  to  the  situation  that  troubled  him,  and 
vexed  him,  day  after  day,  month  after  month.  Beyond 
question,  the  moment  had  come  for  something  definite, 
he  could  not  say  precisely  what.  Readjusting  his  cigar 
between  his  teeth,  he  resumed  his  speech.  It  suited 
his  humour  to  take  the  girl  into  his  confidence,  follow- 
ing an  instinct  which  warned  him  that  this  would  bring 
about  a  certain  closeness  of  their  relations,  a  certain  in- 
timacy. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  this  row,  anyways,  Miss  Hilma, 
— this  railroad  fuss  in  general?  Think  Shelgrim  and  his 
rushers  are  going  to  jump  Quien  Sabe — are  going  to  run 
us  off  the  ranch?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,"  protested  Hilma,  still  breathless.  "  Oh, 
no,  indeed  not." 

"Well,  what  then?" 

Hilma  made  a  little  uncertain  movement  of  ignorance. 

"  I  don't  know  what." 

"  Well,  the  League  agreed  to-day  that  if  the  test  cases 
were  lost  in  the  Supreme  Court — you  know  we've  ap- 
pealed to  the  Supreme  Court,  at  Washington — we'd 
fight." 

"Fight?" 

"  Yes,  fight." 

"  Fight  like — like  you  and  Mr.  Delaney  that  time  with 
— oh,  dear — with  guns  ?  " 


330  The  Octopus 

"  I  don't  know,"  grumbled  Annixter  vaguely.  "  What 
do  you  think  ?  " 

Hilma's  low-pitched,  almost  husky  voice  trembled  a 
little  as  she  replied,  "  lighting — with  guns — that's  so  ter- 
rible. Oh,  those  revolvers  in  the  barn !  I  can  hear  them 
yet.  Every  shot  seemed  like  the  explosion  of  tons  of 
powder." 

"  Shall  we  clear  out,  then  ?  Shall  we  let  Delaney  have 
possession,  and  S.  Behrman,  and  all  that  lot?  Shall  we 
give  in  to  them  ?  " 

"  Never,  never/'  she  exclaimed,  her  great  eyes  flashing. 

"  You  wouldn't  like  to  be  turned  out  of  your  home, 
would  you,  Miss  Hilma,  because  Quien  Sabe  is  your 
home  isn't  it?  You've  lived  here  ever  since  you  were 
as  big  as  a  minute.  You  wouldn't  like  to  have  S.  Behr- 
man and  the  rest  of  'em  turn  you  out  ?  " 

"  N-no,"  she  murmured.  "  No,  I  shouldn't  like  that. 
There's  mamma  and " 

"  Well,  do  you  think  for  one  second  I'm  going  to  let 
'em  ?  "  cried  Annixter,  his  teeth  tightening  on  his  cigar. 
"  You  stay  right  where  you  are.  I'll  take  care  of  you, 
right  enough.  Look  here,"  he  demanded  abruptly, 
"  you've  no  use  for  that  roaring  lush,  Delaney,  have 
you?" 

"  I  think  he  is  a  wicked  man,"  she  declared.  "  I  know 
the  Railroad  has  pretended  to  sell  him  part  of  the  ranch, 
and  he  lets  Mr.  S.  Behrman  and  Mr.  Ruggles  just  use 
him." 

"  Right.    I  thought  you  wouldn't  be  keen  on  him." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  The  buckskin  began  blowing 
among  the  pebbles,  nosing  for  grass,  and  Annixter  shifted 
his  cigar  to  the  other  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"  Pretty  place,"  he  muttered,  looking  around  him. 
Then  he  added :  "  Miss  Hilma,  see  here,  I  want  to  have 
a  kind  of  talk  with  you,  if  you  don't  mind.  I  don't  know 


A  Story  of  California  331 

just  how  to  say  these  sort  of  things,  and  if  I  get  all  balled 
up  as  I  go  along,  you  just  set  it  down  to  the  fact  that 
I've  never  had  any  experience  in  dealing  with  feemale 
girls ;  understand  ?  You  see,  ever  since  the  barn  dance — 
yes,  and  long  before  then — I've  been  thinking  a  lot  about 
you.  Straight,  I  have,  and  I  guess  you  know  it.  You're 
about  the  only  girl  that  I  ever  knew  well,  and  I  guess," 
he  declared  deliberately,  "you're  about  the  only  one  I 
want  to  know.  It's  my  nature.  You  didn't  say  any- 
thing that  time  when  we  stood  there  together  and  De- 
laney was  playing  the  fool,  but,  somehow,  I  got  the  idea 
that  you  didn't  want  Delaney  to  do  for  me  one  little  bit ; 
that  if  he'd  got  me  then  you  would  have  been  sorrier 
than  if  he'd  got  any  one  else.  Well,  I  felt  just  that  way 
about  you.  I  would  rather  have  had  him  shoot  any  other 
girl  in  the  room  than  you ;  yes,  or  in  the  whole  State. 
Why,  if  anything  should  happen  to  you,  Miss  Hilma — 
well,  I  wouldn't  care  to  go  on  with  anything.  S.  Behr- 
man  could  jump  Quien  Sabe,  and  welcome.  And  Delaney 
could  shoot  me  full  of  holes  whenever  he  got  good  and 
ready.  I'd  quit.  I'd  lay  right  down.  I  wouldn't  care  a 
whoop  about  anything  any  more.  You  are  the  only  girl 
for  me  in  the  whole  world.  I  didn't  think  so  at  first.  I 
didn't  want  to.  But  seeing  you  around  every  day,  and 
seeing  how  pretty  you  were,  and  how  clever,  and  hearing 
your  voice  and  all,  why,  it  just  got  all  inside  of  me  some- 
how, and  now  I  can't  think  of  anything  else.  I  hate  to 
go  to  San  Francisco,  or  Sacramento,  or  Visalia,  or  even 
Bonneville,  for  only  a  day,  just  because  you  aren't  there, 
in  any  of  those  places,  and  I  just  rush  what  I've  got  to 
do  so  as  I  can  get  back  here.  While  you  were  away 
that  Christmas  time,  why,  I  was  as  lonesome  as — oh,  you 
don't  know  anything  about  it.  I  just  scratched  off  the 
days  on  the  calendar  every  night,  one  by  one,  till  you  got 
back.  And  it  just  comes  to  this,  I  want  you  with  me  all 


33 2  The  Octopus 

the  time.  I  want  you  should  have  a  home  that's  my 
home,  too.  I  want  to  take  care  of  you,  and  have  you  all 
for  myself,  you  understand.  What  do  you  say?" 

Hilma,  standing  up  before  him,  retied  a  knot  in  her 
handkerchief  bundle  with  elaborate  precaution,  blinking 
at  it  through  her  tears. 

"What  do  you  say,  Miss  Hilma?"  Annixter  repeated. 
"  How  about  that?  What  do  you  say ?  " 

Just  above  a  whisper,  Hilma  murmured: 

"  I— I  don't  know." 

"  Don't  know  what  ?  Don't  you  think  we  could  hit  it 
off  together?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  I  know  we  could,  Hilma.  I  don't  mean  to  scare  you. 
What  are  you  crying  for  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

Annixter  got  up,  cast  away  his  cigar,  and  dropping 
the  buckskin's  bridle,  came  and  stood  beside  her,  put- 
ting a  hand  on  her  shoulder.  Hilma  did  not  move,  and  he 
felt  her  trembling.  She  still  plucked  at  the  knot  of  the 
handkerchief. 

"  I  can't  do  without  you,  littk  girl,"  Annixter  con- 
tinued, "  and  I  want  you.  I  want  you  bad.  I  don't  get 
much  fun  out  of  life  ever.  It,  sure,  isn't  my  nature,  I 
guess.  I'm  a  hard  man.  Everybody  is  trying  to  down 
me,  and  now  I'm  up  against  the  Railroad.  I'm  fighting 
'em  all,  Hilma,  night  and  day,  lock,  stock,  and  barrel,  and 
I'm  fighting  now  for  my  home,  my  land,  everything  I 
have  in  the  world.  If  I  win  out,  I  want  somebody  to  be 
glad  with  me.  If  I  don't — I  want  somebody  to  be  sorry 
for  me,  sorry  with  me, — and  that  somebody  is  you.  I  am 
dog-tired  of  going  it  alone.  I  want  some  one  to  back  me 
up.  I  want  to  feel  you  alongside  of  me,  to  give  me  a 
touch  of  the  shoulder  now  and  then.  I'm  tired  of  fighting 
for  things — land,  property,  money.  I  want  to  fight  for 


A  Story  of  California  333 

some  person — somebody  beside  myself.  Understand?  I 
want  to  feel  that  it  isn't  all  selfishness — that  there  are 
other  interests  than  mine  in  the  game — that  there's  some 
one  dependent  on  me,  and  that's  thinking  of  me  as  I'm 
thinking  of  them — some  one  I  can  come  home  to  at  night 
and  put  my  arm  around — like  this,  and  have  her  put  her 
two  arms  around  me — like — "  He  paused  a  second,  and 
once  again,  as  it  had  been  in  that  moment  of  imminent 
peril,  when  he  stood  with  his  arm  around  her,  their  eyes 
met, — "  put  her  two  arms  around  me,"  prompted  An- 
nixter,  half  smiling,  "  like — like  what,  Hilma  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Like  what,  Hilma?  "  he  insisted. 

*'  Like — like  this  ?  "  she  questioned.  With  a  movement 
of  infinite  tenderness  and  affection  she  slid  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  still  crying  a  little. 

The  sensation  of  her  warm  body  in  his  embrace,  the 
feeling  of  her  smooth,  round  arm,  through  the  thinness 
of  her  sleeve,  pressing  against  his  cheek,  thrilled  Annix- 
ter  with  a  delight  such  as  he  had  never  known.  He  bent 
his  head  and  kissed  her  upon  the  nape  of  her  neck,  where 
the  delicate  amber  tint  melted  into  the  thick,  sweet  smell- 
ing mass  of  her  dark  brown  hair.  She  shivered  a  little, 
holding  him  closer,  ashamed  as  yet  to  look  up.  Without 
speech,  they  stood  there  for  a  long  minute,  holding  each 
other  close.  Then  Hilma  pulled  away  from  him,  mop- 
ping her  tear-stained  cheeks  with  the  little  moist  ball  of 
her  handkerchief. 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  Is  it  a  go  ?"  demanded  Annixter 
jovially. 

"  I  thought  I  hated  you  all  the  time,"  she  said,  and 
the  velvety  huskiness  of  her  voice  never  sounded  so  sweet 
to  him. 

"  And  I  thought  it  was  that  crockery  smashing  goat  of 
a  lout  of  a  cow-puncher." 


334  The  Octopus 

"  Delaney  ?  The  idea !  Oh,  dear !  I  think  it  must  al- 
ways have  been  you." 

"Since  when,  Hilma?"  he  asked,  putting  his  arm 
around  her.  "  Ah,  but  it  is  good  to  have  you,  my  girl," 
he  exclaimed,  delighted  beyond  words  that  she  permitted 
this  freedom.  "Since  when?  Tell  us  all  about  it." 

"  Oh,  since  always.  It  was  ever  so  long  before  I  came 
to  think  of  you — to,  well,  to  think  about — I  mean  to  re- 
member— oh,  you  know  what  I  mean.  But  when  I  did, 
oh,  then!  " 

"Then  what? " 

"I  don't  know — I  haven't  thought — that  way  long 
enough  to  know." 

"  But  you  said  you  thought  it  must  have  been  me 
always." 

"I  know;  but  that  was  different — oh,  I'm  all  mixed 
up.  I'm  so  nervous  and  trembly  now.  Oh,"  she  cried 
suddenly,  her  face  overcast  with  a  look  of  earnestness  and 
great  seriousness,  both  her  hands  catching  at  his  wrist, 
"Oh,  you  will  be  good  to  me,  now,  won't  you?  I'm 
only  a  little,  little  child  in  so  many  ways,  and  I've  given 
myself  to  you,  all  in  a  minute,  and  I  can't  go  back  of  it 
now,  and  it's  for  always.  I  don't  know  how  it  happened 
or  why.  Sometimes  I  think  I  didn't  wish  it,  but  now  it's 
done,  and  I  am  glad  and  happy.  But  now  if  you  weren't 
good  to  me — oh,  think  of  how  it  would  be  with  me. 
You  are  strong,  and  big,  and  rich,  and  I  am  only  a  ser- 
vant of  yours,  a  little  nobody,  but  I've  given  all  I  had 
to  you — myself — and  you  must  be  so  good  to  me  now. 
Always  remember  that.  Be  good  to  me  and  be  gentle 
and  kind  to  me  in  little  things, — in  everything,  or  you 
will  break  my  heart." 

Annixter  took  her  in  his  arms.  He  was  speechless. 
No  words  that  he  had  at  his  command  seemed  adequate, 
All  he  could  say  was: 


A  Story  of  California  335 

"  That's  all  right,  little  girl.  Don't  you  be  frightened. 
I'll  take  care  of  you.  That's  all  right,  that's  all  right." 

For  a  long  time  they  sat  there  under  the  shade  of  the 
great  trestle,  their  arms  about  each  other,  speaking  only 
at  intervals.  An  hour  passed.  The  buckskin,  finding  no 
feed  to  her  taste,  took  the  trail  stablewards,  the  bridle 
dragging.  Annixter  let  her  go.  Rather  than  to  take  his 
arm  from  around  Hilma's  waist  he  would  have  lost  his 
whole  stable.  At  last,  however,  he  bestirred  himself  and 
began  to  talk.  He  thought  it  time  to  formulate  some 
plan  of  action. 

"  Well,  now,  Hilma,  what  are  we  going  to  do  ?  " 

"Do?"  she  repeated.  "Why,  must  we  do  anything? 
Oh,  isn't  this  enough  ?  " 

"  There's  better  ahead,"  he  went  on.  "  I  want  to  fix 
you  up  somewhere  where  you  can  have  a  bit  of  a  home  all 
to  yourself.  Let's  see ;  Bonneville  wouldn't  do.  There's 
always  a  lot  of  yaps  about  there  that  know  us,  and  they 
would  begin  to  cackle  first  off.  How  about  San  Fran- 
cisco. We  might  go  up  next  week  'and  have  a  look 
around.  I  would  find  rooms  you  could  take  somewheres, 
and  we  would  fix  'em  up  as  lovely  as  how-do-you-do." 

"  Oh,  but  why  go  away  from  Quien  Sabe  ?  "  she  pro- 
tested. "And,  then,  so  soon,  too.  Why  must  we  have 
a  weddit-g  trip,  now  that  you  are  so  busy?  Wouldn't  it 
be  better-— oh,  I  tell  you,  we  could  go  to  Monterey  after 
we  were  married,  for  a  little  week,  where  mamma's  peo- 
ple live,  an«l  then  come  back  here  to  the  ranch  house  and 
settle  right  down  where  we  are  and  let  me  keep  house  for 
you.  I  wouldn't  even  want  a  single  servant." 

Annixter  heard  and  his  face  grew  troubled. 

"  Hum,"  he  said,  "  I  see." 

He  gathered  up  a  handful  of  pebbles  and  began  snap- 
ping them  carefully  into  the  creek.  He  fell  thoughtful. 
Here  was  a  phase  of  the  affair  he  had  not  planned  in  the 


336  The  Octopus 

least.  He  had  supposed  all  the  time  that  Hilma  took 
his  meaning.  His  old  suspicion  that  she  was  trying  to 
get  a  hold  on  him  stirred  again  for  a  moment.  There  was 
no  good  of  such  talk  as  that.  Always  these  feemale  girls 
seemed  crazy  to  get  married,  bent  on  complicating  the 
situation. 

"  Isn't  that  best?  "  said  Hilma,  glancing  at  him. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  muttered  gloomily. 

"  Well,  then,  let's  not.  Let's  come  right  back  to  Ouien 
Sabe  without  going  to  Monterey.  Anything  that  you 
want  I  want." 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  in  just  that  way,"  he  observed. 

"  In  what  way,  then  ?  " 

"  Can't  we — can't  we  wait  about  this  marrying  busi- 
ness?" 

"  That's  just  it,"  she  said  gayly.  "  I  said  it  was  too 
soon.  There  would  be  so  much  to  do  between  whiles. 
Why  not  say  at  the  end  of  the  summer  ?  " 

"Say  what?" 

"  Our  marriage,  I  mean." 

"  Why  get  married,  then  ?  What's  the  good  of  all  that 
fuss  about  it?  I  don't  go  anything  upon  a  minister 
puddling  round  in  my  affairs.  What's  the  difference, 
anyhow?  We  understand  each  other.  Isn't  that  enough? 
Pshaw,  Hilma,  I'm  no  marrying  man." 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment,  bewildered,  then  slowly 
she  took  his  meaning.  She  rose  to  her  feet,  her  eyes 
wide,  her  face  paling  with  terror.  He  did  not  look  at 
her,  but  he  could  hear  the  catch'  in  her  throat. 

"  Oh !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  a  long,  deep  breath,  and 
again  "  Oh! "  the  back  of  her  hand  against  her  lips. 

It  was  a  quick  gasp  of  a  veritable  physical  anguish. 
Her  eyes  brimmed  over.  Annixter  rose,  looking  at  her. 

"Well?"  he  said,  awkwardly,  "Well?" 

Hilma  leaped  back  from  him  with  an  instinctive  recoil 


A  Story  of  California  337 

of  her  whole  being,  throwing  out  her  hands  in  a  gesture 
of  defence,  fearing  she  knew  not  what.  There  was  as  yet 
no  sense  of  insult  in  her  mind,  no  outraged  modesty.  She 
was  only  terrified.  It  was  as  though  searching  for  wild 
flowers  she  had  come  suddenly  upon  a  snake. 

She  stood  for  an  instant,  spellbound,  her  eyes  wide, 
her  bosom  swelling;  then,  all  at  once,  turned  and  fled, 
darting  across  the  plank  that  served  for  a  foot  bridge 
over  the  creek,  gaining  the  opposite  bank  and  disappear- 
ing with  a  brisk  rustle  of  underbrush,  such  as  might  have 
been  made  by  the  flight  of  a  frightened  fawn. 

Abruptly  Annixter  found  himself  alone.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  did  not  move,  then  he  picked  up  his  campaign 
hat,  carefully  creased  its  limp  crown  and  put  it  on  his 
head  and  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  vaguely  at  the 
ground  on  both  sides  of  him.  He  went  away  without 
uttering  a  word,  without  change  of  countenance,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  his  feet  taking  great  strides  along 
the  trail  in  the  direction  of  the  ranch  house. 

He  had  no  sight  of  Hilma  again  that  evening,  and  the 
next  morning  he  was  up  early  and  did  not  breakfast  at 
the  ranch  house.  Business  of  the  League  called  him  to 
Bonneville  to  confer  with  Magnus  and  the  firm  of  lawyers 
retained  by  the  League  to  fight  the  land-grabbing  cases. 
An  appeal  was  to  be  taken  to  the  Supreme  Court  at 
Washington,  and  it  was  to  be  settled  that  day  which  of 
the  cases  involved  should  be  considered  as  test  cases. 

Instead  of  driving  or  riding  into  Bonneville,  as  he 
usually  did,  Annixter  took  an  early  morning  train,  the 
Bakersfield-Fresno  local  at  Guadalajara,  and  went  to 
Bonneville  by  rail,  arriving  there  at  twenty  minutes  after 
seven  and  breakfasting  by  appointment  with  Magnus 
Derrick  and  Osterman  at  the  Yosemite  House,  on  Main 
Street. 

The  conference  of  the  committee  with  the  lawyers  took 


338  The  Octopus 

place  in  a  front  room  of  the  Yosemite,  one  of  the  latter 
bringing  with  him  his  clerk,  who  made  a  stenographic 
report  of  the  proceedings  and  took  carbon  copies  of  all 
letters  written.  The  conference  was  long  and  compli- 
cated, the  business  transacted  of  the  utmost  moment, 
and  it  was  not  until  two  o'clock  that  Annixter  found  him- 
self at  liberty. 

However,  as  he  and  Magnus  descended  into  the  lobby 
of  the  hotel,  they  were  aware  of  an  excited  and  interested 
group  collected  about  the  swing  doors  that  opened  from 
the  lobby  of  the  Yosemite  into  the  bar  of  the  same  name. 
Dyke  was  there — even  at  a  distance  they  could  hear  the 
reverberation  of  his  deep-toned  voice,  uplifted  in  wrath 
and  furious  expostulation.  Magnus  and  Annixter  joined 
the  group  wondering,  and  all  at  once  fell  full  upon  the 
first  scene  of  a  drama. 

That  same  morning  Dyke's  mother  had  awakened  him 
according  to  his  instructions  at  daybreak.  A  consign- 
ment of  his  hop  poles  from  the  north  had  arrived  at  the 
freight  office  of  the  P.  and  S.  W.  in  Bonneville,  and  he 
was  to  drive  in  on  his  farm  wagon  and  bring  them  out. 
He  would  have  a  busy  day. 

"  Hello,  hello,"  he  said,  as  his  mother  pulled  his  ear 
to  arouse  him ;  "  morning,  mamma." 

"  It's  time,"  she  said,  "  after  five  already.  Your 
breakfast  is  on  the  stove." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  with  great  affection. 
He  loved  his  mother  devotedly,  quite  as  much  as  he  did 
the  little  tad.  In  their  little  cottage,  in  the  forest  of 
green  hops  that  surrounded  them  on  every  hand,  the 
three  led  a  joyous  and  secluded  life,  contented,  indus- 
trious, happy,  asking  nothing  better.  Dyke,  himself,  was 
a  big-hearted,  jovial  man  who  spread  an  atmosphere  of 
good-humour  wherever  he  went.  In  the  evenings  he 
played  with  Sidney  like  a  big  boy,  an  older  brother,  lying 


A  Story  of  California  339 

on  the  bed,  or  the  sofa,  taking  her  in  his  arms.  Between 
them  they  had  invented  a  great  game.  The  ex-engineer, 
his  boots  removed,  his  huge  legs  in  the  air,  hoisted  the 
little  tad  on  the  soles  of  his  stockinged  feet  like  a  circus 
acrobat,  dandling  her  there,  pretending  he  was  about  to 
let  her  fall.  Sidney,  choking  with  delight,  held  on 
nervously,  with  little  screams  and  chirps  of  excitement, 
while  he  shifted  her  gingerly  from  one  foot  to  another, 
and  thence,  the  final  act,  the  great  gallery  play,  to  the 
palm  of  one  great  hand.  At  this  point  Mrs.  Dyke  was 
called  in,  both  father  and  daughter,  children  both,  crying 
out  that  she  was  to  come  in  and  look,  look.  She  arrived 
out  of  breath  from  the  kitchen,  the  potato  masher  in  her 
hand. 

"  Such  children,"  she  murmured,  shaking  her  head  at 
them,  amused  for  all  that,  tucking  the  potato  masher 
under  her  arm  and  clapping  her  hands. 

In  the  end,  it  was  part  of  the  game  that  Sidney  should 
tumble  down  upon  Dyke,  whereat  he  invariably  vented  a 
great  bellow  as  if  in  pain,  declaring  that  his  ribs  were 
broken.  Gasping,  his  eyes  shut,  he  pretended  to  be  in 
the  extreme  of  dissolution — perhaps  he  was  dying.  Sid- 
ney, always  a  little  uncertain,  amused  but  distressed, 
shook  him  nervously,  tugging  at  his  beard,  pushing  open 
his  eyelid  with  one  finger,  imploring  him  not  to  frighten 
her,  to  wake  up  and  be  good. 

On  this  occasion,  while  yet  he  was  half-dressed,  Dyke 
tiptoed  into  his  mother's  room  to  look  at  Sidney  fast 
asleep  in  her  little  iron  cot,  her  arm  under  her  head,  her 
lips  parted.  With  infinite  precaution  he  kissed  her  twice, 
and  then  finding  one  little  stocking,  hung  with  its  mate 
very  neatly  over  the  back  of  a  chair,  dropped  into  it  a 
dime,  rolled  up  in  a  wad  of  paper.  He  winked  all  to 
himself  and  went  out  again,  closing  the  door  with  exag- 
gerated carefulness. 


340  The  Octopus 

He  breakfasted  alone,  Mrs.  Dyke  pouring  his  coffee 
and  handing  him  his  plate  of  ham  and  eggs,  and  half  an 
hour  later  took  himself  off  in  his  springless,  skeleton 
wagon,  humming  a  tune  behind  his  beard  and  cracking 
the  whip  over  the  backs  of  his  staid  and  solid  farm 
horses. 

The  morning  was  fine,  the  sun  just  coming  up.  He  left 
Guadalajara,  sleeping  and  lifeless,  on  his  left,  and  going 
across  lots,  over  an  angle  of  Quien  Sabe,  came  out  upon 
the  Upper  Road,  a  mile  below  the  Long  Trestle.  He 
was  in  great  spirits,  looking  about  him  over  the  brown 
fields,  ruddy  with  the  dawn.  Almost  directly  in  front  of 
him,  but  far  off,  the  gilded  dome  of  the  court-house  at 
Bonneville  was  glinting  radiant  in  the  first  rays  of  the 
sun,  while  a  few  miles  distant,  toward  the  north,  the 
venerable  campanile  of  the  Mission  San  Juan  stood  sil- 
houetted in  purplish  black  against  the  flaming  east.  As 
he  proceeded,  the  great  farm  horses  jogging  forward, 
placid,  deliberate,  the  country  side  waked  'to  another 
day.  Crossing  the  irrigating  ditch  further  on,  he  met  a 
gang  of  Portuguese,  with  picks  and  shovels  over  their 
shoulders,  just  going  to  work.  Hooven,  already  abroad, 
shouted  him  a  "  Goot  mornun  "  from  behind  the  fence 
of  Los  Muertos.  Far  off,  toward  the  southwest,  in  the 
bare  expanse  of  the  open  fields,  where  a  clump  of  euca- 
lyptus and  cypress  trees  set  a  dark  green  note,  a  thin 
stream  of  smoke  rose  straight  into  the  air  from  the 
kitchen  of  Derrick's  ranch  houses. 

But  a  mile  or  so  beyond  the  Long  Trestle  he  was  sur- 
prised to  see  Magnus  Derrick's  protege,  the  one-time 
shepherd,  Vanamee,  coming  across  Quien  Sabe,  by  a 
trail  from  one  of  Annixter's  division  houses.  Without 
knowing  exactly  why,  Dyke  received  the  impression  that 
the  young  man  had  not  been  in  bed  all  of  that  night. 

As  the  two  approached  each  other,  Dyke  eyed  the 


A  Story  of  California  341 

young  fellow.  He  was  distrustful  of  Vanamee,  having 
the  country-bred  suspicion  of  any  person  he  could  not 
understand.  Vanamee  was,  beyond  doubt,  no  part  of  the 
life  of  ranch  and  country  town.  He  was  an  alien,  a  vaga- 
bond, a  strange  fellow  who  came  and  went  in  mysterious 
fashion,  making  no  friends,  keeping  to  himself.  Why 
did  he  never  wear  a  hat,  why  indulge  in  a  fine,  black, 
pointed  beard,  when  either  a  round  beard  or  a  mustache 
was  the  invariable  custom  ?  Why  did  he  not  cut  his  hair  ? 
Above  all,  why  did  he  prowl  about  so  much  at  night? 
As  the  two  passed  each  other,  Dyke,  for  all  his  good- 
nature, was  a  little  blunt  in  his  greeting  and  looked  back 
at  the  ex-shepherd  over  his  shoulder. 

Dyke  was  right  in  his  suspicion.  Vanamee's  bed  had 
not  been  disturbed  for  three  nights.  On  the  Monday  of 
that  week  he  had  passed  the  entire  night  in  the  garden  of 
the  Mission,  overlooking  the  Seed  ranch,  in  the  little  val- 
ley. Tuesday  evening  had  found  him  miles  away  from 
that  spot,  in  a  deep  arroyo  in  the  Sierra  foothills  to  the 
eastward,  while  Wednesday  he  had  slept  in  an  abandoned 
'dobe  on  Osterman's  stock  range,  twenty  miles  from  his 
resting  place  of  the  night  before. 

The  fact  of  the  matter  was  that  the  old  restlessness 
had  once  more  seized  upon  Vanamee.  Something  began 
tugging  at  him ;  the  spur  of  some  unseen  rider  touched 
his  flank.  The  instinct  of  the  wanderer  woke  and  moved. 
For  some  time  now  he  had  been,  a  part  of  the  Los  Muertos 
staff.  On  Quien  Sabe,  as  on  the  other  ranches,  the  slack 
season  was  at  hand.  While  waiting  for  the  wheat  to 
come  up  no  one  was  doing  much  of  anything.  Vanamee 
had  come  over  to  Los  Muertos  and  spent  most  of  his 
days  on  horseback,  riding  the  range,  rounding  up  and 
watching  the  cattle  in  the  fourth  division  of  the  ranch. 
But  if  the  vagabond  instinct  now  roused  itself  in  the 
strange  fellow's  nature,  a  counter  influence  had  also  set  in. 


342  The  Octopus 

More  and  more  Vanamee  frequented  the  Mission  garden 
after  nightfall,  sometimes  remaining  there  till  the  dawn 
began  to  whiten,  lying  prone  on  the  ground,  his  chin  on 
his  folded  arms,  his  eyes  searching  the  darkness  over  the 
little  valley  of  the  Seed  ranch,  watching,  watching.  As 
the  days  went  by,  he  became  more  reticent  than  ever. 
Presley  often  came  to  find  him  on  the  stock  range,  a 
lonely  figure  in  the  great  wilderness  of  bare,  green  hill- 
sides, but  Vanamee  no  longer  took  him  into  his  confi- 
dence. Father  Sarria  alone  heard  his  strange  stories. 

Dyke  drove  on  toward  Bonneville,  thinking  over  the 
whole  matter.  He  knew,  as  every  one  did  in  that  part  of 
the  country,  the  legend  of  Vanamee  and  Angele,  the  ro- 
mance of  the  Mission  garden,  the  mystery  of  the  Other, 
Vanamee's  flight  to  the  deserts  of  the  southwest,  his 
periodic  returns,  his  strange,  reticent,  solitary  charac- 
ter, but,  like  many  another  of  the  country  people,  he  ac- 
counted for  Vanamee  by  a  short  and  easy  method.  No 
doubt,  the  fellow's  wits  were  turned.  That  was  the  long 
and  short  of  it. 

The  ex-engineer  reached  the  Post  Office  in  Bonneville 
towards  eleven  o'clock,  but  he  did  not  at  once  present  his 
notice  of  the  arrival  of  his  consignment  at  Ruggles's 
office.  It  entertained  him  to  indulge  in  an  hour's  loung- 
ing about  the  streets.  It  was  seldom  he  got  into  town, 
and  when  he  did  he  permitted  himself  the  luxury  of  en- 
joying his  evident  popularity.  He  met  friends  every- 
where, in  the  Post  Office,  in  the  drug  store,  in  the  barber 
shop  and  around  the  court-house.  With  each  one  he  held 
a  moment's  conversation;  almost  invariably  this  ended 
in  the  same  way: 

"  Come  on  'n  have  a  drink." 

"  Well,  I  don't  care  if  I  do." 

And  the  friends  proceeded  to  the  Yosemite  bar,  pledg- 
ing each  other  with  punctilious  ceremony.  Dyke,  how- 


A  Story  of  California  343 

ever, was  a  strictly  temperate  man.  His  life  on  the  engine 
had  trained  him  well.  Alcohol  he  never  touched,  drinking 
instead  ginger  ale,  sarsaparilla-and-iron — soft  drinks. 

At  the  drug  store,  which  also  kept  a  stock  of  miscel- 
laneous stationery,  his  eye  was  caught  by  a  "  transparent 
slate,"  a  child's  toy,  where  upon  a  little  pane  of  frosted 
glass  one  could  trace  with  considerable  elaboration  out- 
line figures  of  cows,  ploughs,  bunches  of  fruit  and  even 
rural  water  mills  that  were  printed  on  slips  of  paper  un- 
derneath. 

"  Now,  there's  an  idea,  Jim/'  he  observed  to  the  boy 
behind  the  soda-water  fountain ;  "I  know  a  little  tad 
that  would  just  about  jump  out  of  her  skin  for  that. 
Think  I'll  have  to  take  it  with  me." 

"  How's  Sidney  getting  along?  "  the  other  asked,  while 
wrapping  up  the  package. 

Dyke's  enthusiasm  had  made  of  his  little  girl  a 
celebrity  throughout  Bonneville. 

The  ex-engineer  promptly  became  voluble,  assertive, 
doggedly  emphatic. 

"  Smartest  little  tad  in  all  Tulare  County,  and  more 
fun!  A  regular  whole  show  in  herself." 

"  And  the  hops  ?  "  inquired  the  other. 

"  Bully,"  declared  Dyke,  with  the  good-natured  man's 
readiness  to  talk  of  his  private  affairs  to  any  one  who 
would  listen.  "  Bully.  I'm  dead  sure  of  a  bonanza 
crop  by  now.  The  rain  came  just  right.  I  actually  don't 
know  as  I  can  store  the  crop  in  those  barns  I  built,  it's 
going  to  be  so  big.  That  foreman  of  mine  was  a  daisy. 
Jim,  I'm  going  to  make  money  in  that  deal.  After  I've 
paid  off  the  mortgage — you  know  I  had  to  mortgage,  yes, 
crop  and  homestead  both,  but  I  can  pay  it  off  and  all 
the  interest  to  boot,  lovely, — well,  and  as  I  was  saying, 
after  all  expenses  are  paid  off  I'll  clear  big  money,  m' 
son.  Yes,  sir.  I  knew  there  was  boodle  in  hops.  You 


344  The  Octopus 

know  the  crop  is  contracted  for  already.  Sure,  the  fore- 
man managed  that.  He's  a  daisy.  Chap  in  San  Fran- 
cisco will  take  it  all  and  at  the  advanced  price.  I  wanted 
to  hang  on,  to  see  if  it  wouldn't  go  to  six  cents,  but  the 
foreman  said,  '  No,  that's  good  enough/  So  I  signed. 
Ain't  it  bully,  hey?" 

"Then  what'll  you  do?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  I'll  have  a  lay-off  for  a  month 
or  so  and  take  the  little  tad  and  mother  up  and  show  'em 
the  city — 'Frisco — until  it's  time  for  the  schools  to  open, 
and  then  we'll  put  Sid  in  the  seminary  at  Marysville. 
Catch  on?" 

"  I  suppose  you'll  stay  right  by  hops  now  ?  " 

"  Right  you  are,  m'son.  I  know  a  good  thing  when 
I  see  it.  There's  plenty  others  going  into  hops  next 
season.  I  set  'em  the  example.  Wouldn't  be  surprised 
if  it  came  to  be  a  regular  industry  hereabouts.  I'm  plan- 
ning ahead  for  next  year  already.  I  can  let  the  foreman 
go,  now  that  I've  learned  the  game  myself,  and  I  think 
I'll  buy  a  piece  of  land  off  Quien  Sabe  and  get  a  bigger 
crop,  and  build  a  couple  more  barns,  and,  by  George,  in 
about  five  years  time  I'll  have  things  humming.  I'm 
going  to  make  money,  Jim." 

He  emerged  once  more  into  the  street  and  went  up  the 
block  leisurely,  planting  his  feet  squarely.  He  fancied 
that  he  could  feel  he  was  considered  of  more  importance 
nowadays.  He  was  no  longer  a  subordinate,  an  em- 
ployee. He  was  his  own  man,  a  proprietor,  an  owner  of 
land,  furthering  a  successful  enterprise.  No  one  had 
helped  him;  he  had  followed  no  one's  lead.  He  had 
struck  out  unaided  for  himself,  and  his  success  was  due 
solely  to  his  own  intelligence,  industry,  and  foresight. 
He  squared  his  great  shoulders  till  the  blue  gingham  of 
his  jumper  all  but  cracked.  Of  late,  his  great  blond  beard 
had  grown  and  the  work  in  the  sun  had  made  his  face 


A  Story  of  California  345 

very  red.  Under  the  visor  of  his  cap — relic  of  his  en- 
gineering days — his  blue  eyes  twinkled  with  vast  good- 
nature. He  felt  that  he  made  a  fine  figure  as  he  went 
by  a  group  of  young  girls  in  lawns  and  muslins  and  gar- 
den hats  on  their  way  to  the  Post  Office.  He  wondered 
if  they  looked  after  him,  wondered  if  they  had  heard  that 
he  was  in  a  fair  way  to  become  a  rich  man. 

But  the  chronometer  in  the  window  of  the  jewelry 
store  warned  him  that  time  was  passing.  He  turned 
about,  and,  crossing  the  street,  took  his  way  to  Ruggles's 
office,  which  was  the  freight  as  well  as  the  land  office  of 
the  P.  and  S.  W.  Railroad. 

As  he  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  counter  in  front  of 
the  wire  partition,  waiting 'for  the  clerk  to  make  out  the 
order  for  the  freight  agent  at  the  depot,  Dyke  was  sur- 
prised to  see  a  familiar  figure  in  conference  with  Ruggles 
himself,  by  a  desk  inside  the  railing. 

The  figure  was  that  of  a  middle-aged  man,  fat,  with  a 
great  stomach,  which  he  stroked  from  time  to  time.  As 
he  turned  about,  addressing  a  remark  to  the  clerk,  Dyke 
recognised  S.  Behrman.  The  banker,  railroad  agent,  and 
political  manipulator  seemed  to  the  ex-engineer's  eyes  to 
be  more  gross  than  ever.  His  smooth-shaven  jowl  stood 
out  big  and  tremulous  on  either  side  of  his  face ;  the  roll 
of  fat  on  the  nape  of  his  neck,  sprinkled  with  sparse,  stiff 
hairs,  bulged  out  with  greater  prominence.  His  great 
stomach,  covered  with  a  light  brown  linen  vest,  stamped 
with  innumerable  interlocked  horseshoes,  protruded  far 
in  advance,  enormous,  aggressive.  He  wore  his  inevita- 
ble round-topped  hat  of  stiff  brown  straw,  varnished  so 
bright  that  it  reflected  the  light  of  the  office  windows  like 
a  helmet,  and  even  from  where  he  stood  Dyke  could  hear 
his  loud  breathing  and  the  clink  of  the  hollow  links  of 
his  watch  chain  upon  the  vest  buttons  of  imitation  pearl, 
as  his  stomach  rose  and  fell. 


346  The  Octopus 

Dyke  looked  at  him  with  attention.  There  was  the 
enemy,  the  representative  of  the  Trust  with  which  Der- 
rick's League  was  locking  horns.  The  great  struggle 
had  begun  to  invest  the  combatants  with  interest.  Daily, 
almost  hourly,  Dyke  was  in  touch  with  the  ranchers,  the 
wheat-growers.  He  heard  their  denunciations,  their 
growls  of  exasperation  and  defiance.  Here  was  the  other 
side — this  placid,  fat  man,  with  a  stiff  straw  hat  and  linen 
vest,  who  never  lost  his  temper,  who  smiled  affably  upon 
his  enemies,  giving  them  good  advice,  commiserating 
with  them  in  one  defeat  after  another,  never  ruffled, 
never  excited,  sure  of  his  power,  conscious  that  back  of 
him  was  the  Machine,  the  colossal  force,  the  inex- 
haustible coffers  of  a  mighty  organisation,  vomiting 
millions  to  the  League's  thousands. 

The  League  was  clamorous,  ubiquitous,  its  objects 
known  to  every  urchin  on  the  streets,  but  the  Trust  was 
silent,  its  ways  inscrutable,  the  public  saw  only  results. 
It  worked  on  in  the  dark,  calm,  disciplined,  irresistible. 
Abruptly  Dyke  received  the  impression  of  the  multitudi- 
nous ramifications  of  the  colossus.  Under  his  feet  the 
ground  seemed  mined ;  down  there  below  him  in  the  dark 
the  huge  tentacles  went  silently  twisting  and  advancing, 
spreading  out  in  every  direction,  sapping  the  strength  of 
all  opposition,  quiet,  gradual,  biding  the  time  to  reach  up 
and  out  and  grip  with  a  sudden  unleashing  of  gigantic 
strength. 

"  I'll  be  wanting  some  cars  of  you  people  before  the 
summer  is  out,"  observed  Dyke  to  the  clerk  as  he  folded 
up  and  put  away  the  order  that  the  other  had  handed  him. 
He  remembered  perfectly  well  that  he  had  arranged  the 
matter  of  transporting  his  crop  some  months  before,  but 
his  role  of  proprietor  amused  him  and  he  liked  to  busy 
himself  again  and  again  with  the  details  of  his  under- 
taking. 


A  Story  of  California  347 

"  I  suppose,"  he  added,  "  you'll  be  able  to  give  'em  to 
me.  There'll  be  a  big  wheat  crop  to  move  this  year  and 
I  don't  want  to  be  caught  in  any  car  famine." 

"  Oh,  you'll  get  your  cars,"  murmured  the  other. 

"  I'll  be  the  means  of  bringing  business  your  way," 
Dyke  went  on ;  "  I've  done  so  well  with  my  hops  that 
there  are  a  lot  of  others  going  into  the  business  next 
season.  Suppose,"  he  continued,  struck  with  an  idea, 
"  suppose  we  went  into  some  sort  of  pool,  a  sort  of 
shippers'  organisation,  could  you  give  us  special  rates, 
cheaper  rates — say  a  cent  and  a  half?  " 

The  other  looked  up. 

"  A  cent  and  a  half !  Say  four  cents  and  a  half  and 
maybe  I'll  talk  business  with  you." 

"  Four  cents  and  a  half,"  returned  Dyke,  "  I  don't  see 
it.  Why,  the  regular  rate  is  only  two  cents." 

"  No,  it  isn't,"  answered  the  clerk,  looking  him  gravely; 
in  the  eye,  "  it's  five  cents." 

"  Well,  there's  where  you  are  wrong,  m'son,"  Dyke 
retorted,  genially.  "  You  look  it  up.  You'll  find  the 
freight  on  hops  from  Bonneville  to  'Frisco  is  two  cents  a 
pound  for  car  load  lots.  You  told  me  that  yourself  last 
fall." 

"  That  was  last  fall,"  observed  the  clerk.  There  was 
a  silence.  Dyke  shot  a  glance  of  suspicion  at  the  other. 
Then,  reassured,  he  remarked: 

"  You  look  it  up.    You'll  see  I'm  right." 

S.  Behrman  came  forward  and  shook  hands  politely 
with  the  ex-engineer. 

"Anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Mr.  Dyke  ?  " 

Dyke  explained.  When  he  had  done  speaking,  the 
clerk  turned  to  S.  Behrman  and  observed,  respectfully : 

"  Our  regular  rate  on  hops  is  five  cents." 

"  Yes,"  answered  S.  Behrman,  pausing  to  reflect ;  "yes, 
Mr.  Dyke,  that's  right — five  cents." 


348  The  Octopus 

The  clerk  brought  forward  a  folder  of  yellow  paper 
and  handed  it  to  Dyke.  It  was  inscribed  at  the  top 
"  Tariff  Schedule  No.  8,"  and  underneath  these  words, 
in  brackets,  was  a  smaller  inscription,  "Supersedes  No. 
7  of  Aug.  i." 

"  See  for  yourself,"  said  S.  Behrman.  He  indicated  an 
item  under  the  head  of  "  Miscellany." 

"  The  following  rates  for  carriage  of  hops  in  car  load 
lots,"  read  Dyke,  "take  effect  June  i,  and  will  remain  in 
force  until  superseded  by  a  later  tariff.  Those  quoted 
beyond  Stockton  are  subject  to  changes  in  traffic  arrange- 
ments with  carriers  by  water  from  that  point." 

In  the  list  that  was  printed  below,  Dyke  saw  that  the 
rate  for  hops  between  Bonneville  or  Guadalajara  and 
San  Francisco  was  five  cents. 

For  a  moment  Dyke  was  confused.  Then  swiftly  the 
matter  became  clear  in  his  mind.  The  Railroad  had 
raised  the  freight  on  hops  from  two  cents  to  five. 

All  his  calculations  as  to  a  profit  on  his  little  invest- 
ment he  had  based  on  a  freight  rate  of  two  cents  a  pound. 
He  was  under  contract  to  deliver  his  crop.  He  could 
not  draw  back.  The  new  rate  ate  up  every  cent  of  his 
gains.  He  stood  there  ruined. 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  he  burst  out.  "You 
promised  me  a  rate  of  two  cents  and  I  went  ahead  with 
my  business  with  that  understanding.  What  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

S.  Behrman  and  the  clerk  watched  him  from  the  other 
side  of  the  counter. 

"  The  rate  is  five  cents,"  declared  the  clerk  doggedly. 

"  Well,  that  ruins  me,"  shouted  Dyke.  "  Do  you  un- 
derstand? I  won't  make  fifty  cents.  Make!  Why,  I 
will  owe, — I'll,  be — be —  That  ruins  me,  do  you  un- 
derstand?" 

The  other  raised  a  shoulder. 


A  Story  of  California  349 

"  We  don't  force  you  to  ship.  You  can  do  as  you  like. 
The  rate  is  five  cents." 

"  Well — but — damn  you,  I'm  under  contract  to  deliver. 
What  am  I  going  to  do?  Why,  you  told  me — you 
promised  me  a  two-cent  rate." 

"  I  don't  remember  it,"  said  the  clerk.  "  I  don't  know 
anything  about  that.  But  I  know  this ;  I  know  that  hops 
have  gone  up.  I  know  the  German  crop  was  a  failure 
and  that  the  crop  in  New  York  wasn't  worth  the  hauling. 
Hops  have  gone  up  to  nearly  a  dollar.  You  don't  sup- 
pose we  don't  know  that,  do  you,  Mr.  Dyke?  " 

"  What's  the  price  of  hops  got  to  do  with  you  ?  " 

"  It's  got  this  to  do  with  us,"  returned  the  other  with 
a  sudden  aggressiveness,  "  that  the  freight  rate  has  gone 
up  to  meet  the  price.  We're  not  doing  business  for  our 
health.  My  orders  are  to  raise  your  rate  to  five  cents, 
and  I  think  you  are  getting  off  easy." 

Dyke  stared  in  blank  astonishment.  For  the  moment, 
the  audacity  of  the  affair  was  what  most  appealed  to  him. 
He  forgot  its  personal  application. 

"  Good  Lord,"  he  murmured,  "  good  Lord !  What  will 
you  people  do  next?  Look  here.  What's  your  basis  of 
applying  freight  rates,  anyhow  ?  "  he  suddenly  vociferated 
with  furious  sarcasm.  "What's  your  rule?  What  are 
you  guided  by  ?  " 

But  at  the  words,  S.  Behrman,  who  had  kept  silent 
during  the  heat  of  the  discussion,  leaned  abruptly  for- 
ward. For  the  only  time  in  his  knowledge,  Dyke  saw 
his  face  inflamed  with  anger  and  with  the  enmity  and 
contempt  of  all  this  farming  element  with  whom  he  was 
contending. 

"  Yes,  what's  your  rule  ?  What's  your  basis  ? "  de- 
manded Dyke,  turning  swiftly  to  him. 

S.  Behrman  emphasised  each  word  of  his  reply  with 
a  tap  of  one  forefinger  on  the  counter  before  him : 


350  The  Octopus 

"  Ail— the— traffic— will— bear." 

The  ex-engineer  stepped  back  a  pace,  his  fingers  on  the 
ledge  of  the  counter,  to  steady  himself.  He  felt  himself 
grow  pale,  his  heart  became  a  mere  leaden  weight  in  his 
chest,  inert,  refusing  to  beat. 

In  a  second  the  whole  affair,  in  all  its  bearings,  went 
speeding  before  the  eye  of  his  imagination  like  the  rapid 
unrolling  of  a  panorama.  Every  cent  of  his  earnings 
was  sunk  in  this  hop  business  of  his.  More  than  that,  he 
had  borrowed  money  to  carry  it  on,  certain  of  success — 
borrowed  of  S.  Behrman,  offering  his  crop  and  his  little 
home  as  security.  Once  he  failed  to  meet  his  obligations, 
S.  Behrman  would  foreclose.  Not  only  would  the  Rail- 
road devour  every  morsel  of  his  profits,  but  also  it  would 
take  from  him  his  home ;  at  a  blow  he  would  be  left  pen- 
niless and  without  a  home.  What  would  then  become  of 
his  mother — and  what  would  become  of  the  little  tad? 
She,  whom  he  had  been  planning  to  educate  like  a  verita- 
ble lady.  For  all  that  year  he  had  talked  of  his  ambition 
for  his  little  daughter  to  every  one  he  met.  All  Bonne- 
ville  knew  of  it.  What  a  mark  for  gibes  he  had  made  of 
himself.  The  workingman  turned  farmer!  What  a 
target  for  jeers — he  who  had  fancied  he  could  elude  the 
Railroad !  He  remembered  he  had  once  said  the  great 
Trust  had  overlooked  his  little  enterprise,  disdaining  to 
plunder  such  small  fry.  He  should  have  known  better 
than  that.  How  had  he  ever  imagined  the  Road  would 
permit  him  to  make  any  money? 

Anger  was  not  in  hfm  yet;  no  rousing  of  the  blind, 
white-hot  wrath  that  leaps  to  the  attack  with  prehensile 
fingers,  moved  him.  The  blow  merely  crushed,  stag- 
gered, confused. 

He  stepped  aside  to  give  place  to  a  coatless  man  in  a 
pink  shirt,  who  entered,  carrying  in  his  hands  an  auto- 
matic door-closing  apparatus. 


A  Story  of  California  351 

"  Where  does  this  go  ?  "  inquired  the  man. 

Dyke  sat  down  for  a  moment  on  a  seat  that  had  been 
removed  from  a  worn-out  railway  car  to  do  duty  in 
Ruggles's  office.  On  the  back  of  a  yellow  envelope  he 
made  some  vague  figures  with  a  stump  of  blue  pencil, 
multiplying,  subtracting,  perplexing  himself  wit)/  many 
errors. 

S.  Behrman,  the  clerk,  and  the  man  with  tb?  door- 
closing  apparatus  involved  themselves  in  a  lor.'g  argu- 
ment, gazing  intently  at  the  top  panel  of  the  door.  The 
man  who  had  come  to  fix  the  apparatus  was  unwilling 
to  guarantee  it,  unless  a  sign  was  put  on  the  outside  oi: 
the  door,  warning  incomers  that  the  door  WcS  seif-clos<- 
ing.  This  sign  would  cost  fifteen  cents  extra. 

"  But  you  didn't  say  anything  about  this  when  the 
thing  was  ordered,"  declared  S.  Behrman.  "  '.Mo,  I  won't 
pay  it,  my  friend.  It's  an  overcharge." 

"You  needn't  think,"  observed  the  clerk,  "that  just 
because  you  are  dealing  with  the  Railroad  you  are  going 
to  work  us." 

Genslinger  came  in,  accompanied  by  Delaney.  S. 
Behrman  and  the  clerk,  abruptly  dismissing  the  man  with 
the  door-closing  machine,  put  themselves  behind  the 
counter  and  engaged  in  conversation  with  these  two, 
Genslinger  introduced  Delaney.  The  buster  had  a  string 
of  horses  he  was  shipping  southward.  No  doubt  he  had 
come  to  make  arrangements  with  the  Railroad  in  the 
matter  of  stock  cars.  The  conference  of  the  four  men 
was  amicable  in  the  extreme. 

Dyke,  studying  the  figures  on  the  back  of  the  envelope, 
came  forward  again.  Absorbed  only  in  his  own  distress, 
he  ignored  the  editor  and  the  cow-puncher. 

"Say,"  he  hazarded,  "how  about  this?  I  make 
out " 

"  We've  told  you  what  our  rates  are,  Mr.  Dyke,"  ex- 


352  The  Octopus 

claimed  the  clerk  angrily.  "  That's  all  the  arrangement 
we  will  make.  Take  it  or  leave  it."  He  turned  again 
to  Genslinger,  giving  the  ex-engineer  his  back. 

Dyke  moved  away  and  stood  for  a  moment  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  staring  at  the  figures  on  the  envelope. 

"I  don't  see/'  he  muttered,  "just  what  I'm  going  to 
do.  No,  I  don't  see  what  I'm  going  to  do  at  all." 

Ruggles  came  in,  bringing  with  him  two  other  men  in 
whom  Dyke  recognised  dummy  buyers  of  the  Los  Muer- 
tos  and  Osterman  ranchos.  They  brushed  by  him,  jost- 
ling his  elbow,  and  as  he  went  out  of  the  door  he  heard 
them  exchange  jovial  greetings  with  Delaney,  Gen- 
slinger, and  S.  Behrman. 

Dyke  went  down  the  stairs  to  the  street  and  proceeded 
onward  aimlessly  in  the  direction  of  the  Yosemite  House, 
fingering  the  yellow  envelope  and  looking  vacantly  at  the 
sidewalk. 

There  was  a  stoop  to  his  massive  shoulders.  His  great 
arms  dangled  loosely  at  his  sides,  the  palms  of  his  hands 
open. 

As  he  went  along,  a  certain  feeling  of  shame  touched 
him.  Surely  his  predicament  must  be  apparent  to  every 
passer-by.  No  doubt,  every  one  recognised  the  unsuc- 
cessful man  in  the  very  way  he  slouched  along.  The 
young  girls  in  lawns,  muslins,  and  garden  hats,  returning 
from  the  Post  Office,  their  hands  full  of  letters,  must 
surely  see  in  him  the  type  of  the  failure,  the  bankrupt. 

Then  brusquely  his  tardy  rage  flamed  up.  By  God, 
no,  it  was  not  his  fault;  he  had  made  no  mistake.  His 
energy,  industry,  and  foresight  had  been  sound.  He  had 
been  merely  the  object  of  a  colossal  trick,  a  sordid  in- 
justice, a  victim  of  the  insatiate  greed  of  the  monster, 
caught  and  choked  by  one  of  those  millions  of  tentacles 
suddenly  reaching  up  from  below,  from  out  the  dark  be- 
neath his  feet,  coiling  around  his  throat,  throttling  him, 


A  Story  of  California  353 

strangling  him,  sucking  his  blood.  For  a  moment  he 
thought  of  the  courts,  but  instantly  laughed  at  the  idea. 
What  court  was  immune  from  the  power  of  the  monster  ? 
Ah,  the  rage  of  helplessness,  the  fury  of  impotence !  No 
help,  no  hope, — ruined  in  a  brief  instant — he  a  veritable 
giant,  built  of  great  sinews,  powerful,  in  the  full  tide  of 
his  manhood,  having  all  his  health,  all  his  wits.  How 
could  he  now  face  his  home?  How  could  he  tell  his 
mother  of  this  catastrophe  ?  And  Sidney — the  little  tad ; 
how  could  he  explain  to  her  this  wretchedness — how 
soften  her  disappointment?  How  keep  the  tears  from 
out  her  eyes — how  keep  alive  her  confidence  in  him — her 
faith  in  his  resources? 

Bitter,  fierce,  ominous,  his  wrath  loomed  up  in  his 
heart.  His  fists  gripped  tight  together,  his  teeth 
clenched.  Oh,  for  a  moment  to  have  his  hand  upon  the 
throat  of  S.  Behrman,  wringing  the  breath  from  him, 
wrenching  out  the  red  life  of  him — staining  the  street 
with  the  blood  sucked  from  the  veins  of  the  People! 

To  the  first  friend  that  he  met,  Dyke  told  the  tale  of 
the  tragedy,  and  to  the  next,  and  to  the  next.  The  affair 
went  from  mouth  to  mouth,  spreading  with  electrical 
swiftness,  overpassing  and  running  ahead  of  Dyke  him- 
self, so  that  by  the  time  he  reached  the  lobby  of  the 
Yosemite  House,  he  found  his  story  awaiting  him.  A 
group  formed  about  him.  In  his  immediate  vicinity 
business  for  the  instant  was  suspended.  The  group 
swelled.  One  after  another  of  his  friends  added  them- 
selves to  it.  Magnus  Derrick  joined  it,  and  Annixter. 
Again  and  again,  Dyke  recounted  the  matter,  beginning 
with  the  time  when  he  was  discharged  from  the  same 
corporation's  service  for  refusing  to  accept  an  unfair 
wage.  His  voice  quivered  with  exasperation ;  his  heavy 
frame  shook  with  rage;  his  eyes  were  injected,  blood- 
shot; his  face  flamed  vermilion,  while  his  deep  bass 


354  The  Octopus 

rumbled  throughout  the  running  comments  of  his 
auditors  like  the  thunderous  reverberation  of  diapason. 

From  all  points  of  view,  the  story  was  discussed  by 
those  who  listened  to  him,  now  in  the  heat  of  excite- 
ment, now  calmly,  judicially.  One  verdict,  however, 
prevailed.  It  was  voiced  by  Annixter :  "  You're  stuck. 
You  can  roar  till  you're  black  in  the  face,  but  you  can't 
buck  against  the  Railroad.  There's  nothing  to  be  done." 

"  You  can  shoot  the  ruffian,  you  can  shoot  S.  Behr- 
man,"  clamoured  one  of  the  group.  "  Yes,  sir ;  by  the 
Lord,  you  can  shoot  him.'' 

"  Poor  fool,"  commented  Annixter,  turning  away. 

Nothing  to  be  done.  No,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done 
— not  one  thing.  Dyke,  at  last  alone  and  driving  his 
team  out  of  the  town,  turned  the  business  confusedly 
over  in  his  mind  from  end  to  end.  Advice,  suggestion, 
even  offers  of  financial  aid  had  been  showered  upon  him 
from  all  directions.  Friends  were  not  wanting  who 
heatedly  presented  to  his  consideration  all  manner  of 
ingenious  plans,  wonderful  devices.  They  were  worth- 
less. The  tentacle  held  fast.  He  was  stuck. 

By  degrees,  as  his  wagon  carried  him  farther  out  into 
the  country,  and  open  empty  fields,  his  anger  lapsed,  and 
the  numbness  of  bewilderment  returned.  He  could  not 
look  one  hour  ahead  into  the  future ;  could  formulate  no 
plans  even  for  the  next  day.  He  did  not  know  what  to 
do.  He  was  stuck. 

With  the  limpness  and  inertia  of  a  sack  of  sand,  the 
reins  slipping  loosely  in  his  dangling  fingers,  his  eyes 
fixed,  staring  between  the  horses'  heads,  he  allowed  him- 
self to  be  carried  aimlessly  along.  He  resigned  himself. 
What  did  he  care?  What  was  the  use  of  going  on?  He 
was  stuck. 

The  team  he  was  driving  had  once  belonged  to  the 
Los  Muertos  stables,  and  unguided  as  the  horses  were, 


A  Story  of  California  355 

they  took  the  county  road  towards  Derrick's  ranch 
house.  Dyke,  all  abroad,  was  unaware  of  the  fact  till, 
drawn  by  the  smell  of  water,  the  horses  halted  by  the 
trough  in  front  of  Caraher's  saloon. 

The  ex-engineer  dismounted,  looking  about  him,  re- 
alising where  he  was.  So  much  the  worse;  it  did  not 
matter.  Now  that  he  had  come  so  far  it  was  as  short  to 
go  home  by  this  route  as  to  return  on  his  tracks.  Slowly 
he  unchecked  the  horses  and  stood  at  their  heads,  watch- 
ing them  drink. 

"  I  don't  see,"  he  muttered,  "  just  what  I  am  going 
to  do/' 

Caraher  appeared  at  the  door  of  his  place,  his  red  face, 
red  beard,  and  flaming  cravat  standing  sharply  out  from 
the  shadow  of  the  doorway.  He  called  a  welcome  to 
Dyke. 

"  Hello,  Captain." 

Dyke  looked  up,  nodding  his  head  listlessly. 

"  Hello,  Caraher,"  he  answered. 

"  Well,"  continued  the  saloonkeeper,  coming  forward 
a  step,  "  what's  the  news  in  town  ?  " 

Dyke  told  him.  Caraher's  red  face  suddenly  took  on  a 
darker  colour.  The  red  glint  in  his  eyes  shot  from  under 
his  eyebrows.  Furious,  he  vented  a  rolling  explosion  of 
oaths. 

"  And  now  it's  your  turn/'  he  vociferated.  "  They 
ain't  after  only  the  big  wheat-growers,  the  rich  men.  By 
God,  they'll  even  pick  the  poor  man's  pocket.  Oh,  they'll 
get  their  bellies  full  some  day.  It  can't  last  forever. 
They'll  wake  up  the  wrong  kind  of  man  some  morning, 
the  man  that's  got  guts  in  him,  that  will  hit  back  when 
he's  kicked  and  that  will  talk  to  'em  with  a  torch  in  one 
hand  and  a  stick  of  dynamite  in  the  other."  He  raised 
his  clenched  fists  in  the  air.  "  So  help  me,  God,"  he 
cried,  "  when  I  think  it  all  over  I  go  crazy,  I  see  red 


356  The  Octopus 

Oh,  if  the  people  only  knew  their  strength.  Oh,  if  I 
could  wake  'em  up.  There's  not  only  Shclgrim,  but 
there's  others.  All  the  magnates,  all  the  butchers,  all  the 
blood-suckers,  by  the  thousands.  Their  day  will  come, 
by  God,  it  will." 

By  now,  the  ex-engineer  and  the  bar-keeper  had  retired 
to  the  saloon  back  of  the  grocery  to  talk  over  the  details 
of  this  new  outrage.  Dyke,  still  a  little  dazed,  sat  down 
by  one  of  the  tables,  preoccupied,  saying  but  little,  and 
Caraher  as  a  matter  of  course  set  the  whiskey  bottle  at 
his  elbow. 

It  happened  that  at  this  same  moment,  Presley,  return- 
ing to  Los  Mucrtos  from  Bonneville,  his  pockets  full  of 
mail,  stopped  in  at  the  grocery  to  buy  some  black  lead 
for  his  bicycle.  In  the  saloon,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
narrow  partition,  he  overheard  the  conversation  between 
Dyke  and  Caraher.  The  door  was  open.  He  caught 
every  word  distinctly. 

"  Tell  us  all  about  it,  Dyke,"  urged  Caraher. 

For  the  fiftieth  time  Dyke  told  the  story.  Already  it 
had  crystallised  into  a  certain  form.  He  used  the  same 
phrases  with  each  repetition,  the  same  sentences,  the  same 
words.  In  his  mind  it  became  set.  Thus  he  would  tell 
it  to  any  one  who  would  listen  from  now  on,  week  after 
week,  year  after  year,  all  the  rest  of  his  life — "  And  I 
based  my  calculations  on  a  two-cent  rate.  So  soon  as 
they  saw  I  was  to  make  money  they  doubled  the  tariff- 
all  the  traffic  would  bear — and  I  mortgaged  to  S.  Bchr- 
man — ruined  me  with  a  turn  of  the  hand — stuck,  cinched, 
and  not  one  thing  to  be  done." 

As  he  talked,  he  drank  glass  after  glass  of  whiskey, and 
the  honest  rage,  the  open,  above-board  fury  of  his 
mind  coagulated,  thickened,  and  sunk  to  a  dull,  evil 
hatred,  a  wicked,  oblique  malevolence.  Caraher,  sure 
now  of  winning  a  disciple,  replenished  his  glass. 


A  Story  oi  Calitbrnia  357 

"  Do  you  blame  us  now,"  he  cried,  "  us  others,  the 
Reds?  Ah,  yes,  it's  all  very  well  for  your  middle  class 
to  preach  moderation.  I  could  do  it,  too.  You  could  do 
it,  too,  if  your  belly  was  fed,  if  your  property  was  safe, 
if  your  wife  had  not  been  murdered,  if  your  children  were 
not  starving.  Easy  enough  then  to  preach  law-abiding 
methods,  legal  redress,  and  all  such  rot.  But  how  about 
us? "  he  vociferated.  "  Ah,  yes,  I'm  a  loud-mouthed 
rum-seller,  ain't  I?  I'm  a  wild-eyed  striker,  ain't  I? 
I'm  a  blood-thirsty  anarchist,  ain't  I?  Wait  till  you've 
seen  your  wife  brought  home  to  you  with  the  face  you 
used  to  kiss  smashed  in  by  a  horse's  hoof — killed  by  the 
Trust,  as  it  happened  to  me.  Then  talk  about  modera- 
tion! And  you.  Dyke,  black-listed  engineer,  discharged 
employee,  ruined  agriculturist,  wait  till  you  see  your  little 
tad  and  your  mother  turned  out  of  doors  when  S.  Behr- 
man  forecloses.  Wait  till  you  see  'em  getting  thin  and 
white,  and  till  you  hear  your  little  girl  ask  you  why  you 
all  don't  eat  a  little  more  and  that  she  wants  her  dinner 
and  you  can't  give  it  to  her.  Wait  till  you  see — at  the 
same  time  that  your  family  is  dying  for  lack  of  bread — a 
hundred  thousand  acres  of  wheat — millions  of  bushels  of 
food — grabbed  and  gobbled  by  the  Railroad  Trust,  and 
then  talk  of  moderation.  That  talk  is  just  what  the 
Trust  wants  to  hear.  It  ain't  frightened  of  that.  There's 
one  thing  only  it  does  listen  to,  one  thing  it  is  frightened 
of — the  people  with  dynamite  in  their  hands, — six  inches 
of  plugged  gaspipe.  That  talks." 

Dyke  did  not  reply.  He  filled  another  pony  of  whiskey 
and  drank  it  in  two  gulps.  His  frown  had  lowered  to  a 
scowl,  his  face  was  a  dark  red,  his  head  had  sunk,  bull- 
like,  between  his  massive  shoulders ;  without  winking  he 
gazed  long  and  with  troubled  eyes  at  his  knotted,  muscu- 
lar hands,  lying  open  on  the  table  before  him,  idle,  their 
occupation  gone. 


358  The  Octopus 

Presley  forgot  his  black  lead.  He  listened  to  Caraher. 
Through  the  open  door  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Dyke's 
back,  broad,  muscled,  bowed  down,  the  great  shoulders 
stooping. 

The  whole  drama  of  the  doubled  freight  rate  leaped 
salient  and  distinct  in  the  eye  of  his  mind.  And  this  was 
but  one  instance,  an  isolated  case.  Because  he  was  near 
at  hand  he  happened  to  see  it.  How  many  others  were 
there,  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  State  ?  Constantly 
this  sort  of  thing  must  occur — little  industries  choked 
out  in  their  very  beginnings,  the  air  full  of  the  death  rat- 
tles of  little  enterprises,  expiring  unobserved  In  far-off 
counties,  up  in  canons  and  arroyos  of  the  foothills,  for- 
gotten by  every  one  but  the  monster  who  was  daunted 
by  the  magnitude  of  no  business,  however  great,  who 
overlooked  no  opportunity  of  plunder,  however  petty, 
who  with  one  tentacle  grabbed  a  hundred  thousand 
acres  of  wheat,  and  with  another  pilfered  a  pocketful  of 
growing  hops. 

He  went  away  without  a  word,  his  head  bent,  his 
hands  clutched  tightly  on  the  cork  grips  of  the  handle 
bars  of  his  bicycle.  His  lips  were  white.  In  his  heart 
a  blind  demon  of  revolt  raged  tumultuous,  shrieking 
blasphemies. 

At  Los  Muertos,  Presley  overtook  Annixter.  As  he 
guided  his  wheel  up  the  driveway  to  Derrick's  ranch 
house,  he  saw  the  master  of  Quien  Sabe  and  Harran  in 
conversation  on  the  steps  of  the  porch.  Magnus  stood 
in  the  doorway,  talking  to  his  wife. 

Occupied  with  the  press  of  business  and  involved  in 
the  final  conference  with  the  League's  lawyers  on  the  eve 
of  the  latter's  departure  for  Washington,  Annixter  had 
missed  the  train  that  was  to  take  him  back  to  Guadala- 
jara and  Quien  Sabe.  Accordingly,  he  had  accepted  the 
Governor's  invitation  to  return  with  him  on  his  buck- 


A  Story  of  California  359 

board  to  Los  Muertos,  and  before  leaving  Bonneville  had 
telephoned  to  his  ranch  to  have  young  Vacca  bring  the 
buckskin,  by  way  of  the  Lower  Road,  to  meet  him  at  Los 
Muertos.  He  found,  her  waiting  there  for  him,  but  be- 
fore going  on,  delayed  a  few  moments  to  tell  Harran  of 
Dyke's  affair. 

"I  wonder  what  he  will  do  now?"  observed  Harran 
when  his  first  outburst  of  indignation  had  subsided. 

"  Nothing,"  declared  Annixter.     "  He's  stuck." 

"  That  eats  up  every  cent  of  Dyke's  earnings,"  Harran 
went  on.  "  He  has  been  ten  years  saving  them.  Oh,  I 
told  him  to  make  sure  of  the  Railroad  when  he  first  spoke 
to  me  about  growing  hops." 

•  "  I've  just  seen  him,"  said  Presley,  as  he  joined  the 
others.  u  He  was  at  Caraher's.  I  only  saw  his  back. 
He  was  drinking  at  a  table  and  his  back  was  towards  me. 
But  the  man  looked  broken — absolutely  crushed.  It  is 
terrible,  terrible." 

"  He  was  at  Caraher's,  was  he  ?  "  demanded  Annixter, 

"  Yes." 

"Drinking,  hey?" 

"  I  think  so.     Yes,  I  saw  a  bottle." 

"  Drinking  at  Caraher's,"  exclaimed  Annixter,  ran- 
corously;  "I  can  see  his  finish." 

There  was  a  silence.  It  seemed  as  if  nothing  more  was 
to  be  said.  They  paused,  looking  thoughtfully  on  the 
ground. 

In  silence,  grim,  bitter,  infinitely  sad,  the  three  men, 
as  if  at  that  moment  actually  standing  in  the  bar-room 
of  Caraher's  roadside  saloon,  contemplated  the  slow 
sinking,  the  inevitable  collapse  and  submerging  of  one  of 
their  companions,  the  wreck  of  a  career,  the  ruin  of  an 
individual;  an  honest  man,  strong,  fearless,  upright, 
struck  down  by  a  colossal  power,  perverted  by  an  evil 
influence,  go  reeling  to  his  ruin. 


360  The  Octopus 

"  I  see  his  finish,"  repeated  Annixter.  "  Exit  Dyke, 
and  score  another  tally  for  S.  Behrman,  Shelgrim  and 
Co." 

He  moved  away  impatiently,  loosening  the  tie-rope 
with  which  the  buckskin  was  fastened.  He  swung  him- 
self up. 

"  God  for  us  all,"  he  declared  as  he  rode  away,  "  and 
the  devil  take  the  hindmost.  Good-bye,  I'm  going  home. 
I  still  have  one  a  little  longer." 

He  galloped  away  along  the  Lower  Road,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Quien  Sabe,  emerging  from  the  grove  of  cypress 
and  eucalyptus  about  the  ranch  house,  and  coming  out 
upon  the  bare  brown  plain  of  the  wheat  land,  stretching 
away  from  him  in  apparent  barrenness  on  either  hand. 

It  was  late  in  the  day,  already  his  shadow  was  long 
upon  the  padded  dust  of  the  road  in  front  of  him.  On 
ahead,  a  long  ways  off,  and  a  little  to  the  north,  the  ven- 
erable campanile  of  the  Mission  San  Juan  was  glinting 
radiant  in  the  last  rays  of  the  sun,  while  behind  him, 
towards  the  north  and  west,  the  gilded  dome  of  the  court- 
house at  Bonneville  stood  silhouetted  in  purplish  black 
against  the  flaming  west.  Annixter  spurred  the  buck- 
skin forward.  He  feared  he  might  be  late  to  his  supper. 
He  wondered  if  it  would  be  brought  to  him  by  Hilma. 

Hilma!  The  name  struck  across  in  his  brain  with  a 
pleasant,  glowing  tremour.  All  through  that  day  of 
activity,  of  strenuous  business,  the  minute  and  cautious 
planning  of  the  final  campaign  in  the  great  war  of  the 
League  and  the  Trust,  the  idea  of  her  and  the  recollec- 
tion of  her  had  been  the  undercurrent  of  his  thoughts. 
At  last  he  was  alone.  He  could  put  all  other  things  be- 
hind him  and  occupy  himself  solely  with  her. 

In  that  glory  of  the  day's  end,  in  that  chaos  of  sun- 
shine, he  saw  her  again.  Unimaginative,  crude,  direct, 
his  fancy,  nevertheless,  placed  her  before  him,  steeped  in 


A  Scory  of  California  361 

sunshine,  saturated  with  glorious  light,  brilliant,  radiant, 
alluring.  He  saw  the  sweet  simplicity  of  her  carriage, 
the  statuesque  evenness  of  the  contours  of  her  figure,  the 
single,  deep  swell  of  her  bosom,  the  solid  masses  of  her 
hair.  He  remembered  the  small  contradictory  sugges- 
tions of  feminine  daintiness  he  had  so  often  remarke4 
about  her,  her  slim,  narrow  feet,  the  little  steel  buckles 
of  her  low  shoes,  the  knot  of  black  ribbon  she  had  begun 
to  wear  of  late  on  the  back  of  her  head,  and  he  heard  her 
voice,  low-pitched,  velvety,  a  sweet,  murmuring  huski- 
ness  that  seemed  to  come  more  from  her  chest  than  from 
her  throat. 

The  buckskin's  hoofs  clattered  upon  the  gravelly  flats 
of  Broderson's  Creek  underneath  the  Long  Trestle.  An- 
nixters  mind  went  back  to  the  scene  of  the  previous  even- 
ing, when  he  had  come  upon  her  at  this  place.  He  set 
his  teeth  with  anger  and  disappointment.  Why  had  she 
not  been  able  to  understand  ?  What  was  the  matter  with 
these  women,  always  set  upon  this  marrying  notion? 
Was  it  not  enough  that  he  wanted  her  more  than  any 
other  girl  he  knew  and  that  she  wanted  him?  She  had 
said  as  much.  Did  she  think  she  was  going  to  be  mis- 
tress of  Quien  Sabe?  Ah,  that  was  it.  She  was  after 
his  property,  was  for  marrying  him  because  of  his  money. 
His  unconquerable  suspicion  of  the  woman,  his  innate 
distrust  of  the  feminine  element  would  not  be  done  away 
with.  What  fathomless  duplicity  was  hers,  that  she 
could  appear  so  innocent.  It  was  almost  unbelievable; 
in  fact,  was  it  believable  ? 

For  the  first  time  doubt  assailed  him.  Suppose  Hilma 
was  indeed  all  that  she  appeared  to  be.  Suppose  it  was 
not  with  her  a  question  of  his  property,  after  all ;  it  was 
a  poor  time  to  think  of  marrying  him  for  his  property 
when  all  Quien  Sabe  hung  in  the  issue  of  the  next  few 
months.  Suppose  she  had  been  sincere.  But  he  caught 


The  Octopus 

himself  up.  Was  he  to  be  fooled  by  a  feemale  girl  at  this 
late  date?  He,  Buck  Annixter,  crafty,  hard-headed,  a 
man  of  affairs?  Not  much.  Whatever  transpired  he 
would  remain  the  master. 

He  reached  Quien  Sabe  in  this  frame  of  mind.  But 
at  this  hour,  Annixter,  for  all  his  resolutions,  could  no 
longer  control  his  thoughts.  As  he  stripped  the  saddle 
from  the  buckskin  and  led  her  to  the  watering  trough 
by  the  stable  corral,  his  heart  was  beating  thick  at  the 
very  notion  of  being  near  Hilma  again.  It  was  growing 
dark,  but  covertly  he  glanced  here  and  there  out  of  the 
corners  of  his  eyes  to  see  if  she  was  anywhere  about. 
Annixter — how,  he  could  not  tell — had  become  possessed 
of  the  idea  that  Hilma  would  not  inform  her  parents  of 
what  had  passed  between  them  the  previous  evening 
under  the  Long  Trestle.  He  had  no  idea  that  matters 
were  at  an  end  between  himself  and  the  young  woman. 
He  must  apologise,  he  saw  that  clearly  enough,  must  eat 
crow,  as  he  told  himself.  Well,  he  would  eat  crow. 
He  was  not  afraid  of  her  any  longer,  now  that  she  had 
made  her  confession  to  him.  He  would  see  her  as  soon 
as  possible  and  get  this  business  straightened  out,  and 
begin  again  from  a  new  starting  point.  What  he  wanted 
with  Hilma,  Annixter  did  not  define  clearly  in  his  mind. 
At  one  time  he  had  known  perfectly  well  what  he  wanted. 
Now,  the  goal  of  his  desires  had  become  vague.  He 
could  not  say  exactly  what  it  was.  He  preferred  that 
things  should  go  forward  without  much  idea  of  conse- 
quences ;  if  consequences  came,  they  would  do  so  natu- 
rally enough,  and  of  themselves ;  all  that  he  positively 
knew  was  that  Hilma  occupied  his  thoughts  morning, 
noon,  and  night ;  that  he  was  happy  when  he  was  with 
her,  and  miserable  when  away  from  her. 

The  Chinese  cook  served  his  supper  in  silence.  An- 
nixter ate  and  drank  and  lighted  a  cigar,  and  after  his 


A  Story  of  California  363 

meal  sat  on  the  porch  of  his  house,  smoking  and  enjoy- 
ing the  twilight.  The  evening  was  beautiful,  warm,  the 
sky  one  powder  of  stars.  From  the  direction  of  the  sta- 
bles he  heard  one  of  the  Portuguese  hands  picking  a 
guitar. 

But  he  wanted  to  see  Hilma.  The  idea  of  going  to 
bed  without  at  least  a  glimpse  of  her  became  distasteful 
to  him.  Annixter  got  up  and  descending  from  the  porch 
began  to  walk  aimlessly  about  between  the  ranch  build- 
ings, with  eye  and  ear  alert.  Possibly  he  might  meet  her 
somewheres. 

The  Trees'  little  house,  toward  which  inevitably  An- 
nixter directed  his  steps,  was  dark.  Had  they  all  gone  to 
bed  so  soon  ?  He  made  a  wide  circuit  about  it,  listening, 
but  heard  no  sound.  The  door  of  the  dairy-house  stood 
ajar.  He  pushed  it  open,  and  stepped  into  the  odorous 
darkness  of  its  interior.  The  pans  and  deep  cans  of 
polished  metal  glowed  faintly  from  the  corners  and  from 
the  walls.  The  smell  of  new  cheese  was  pungent  in  his 
nostrils.  Everything  was  quiet.  There  was  nobody 
there.  He  went  out  again,  closing  the  door,  and  stood 
for  a  moment  in  the  space  between  the  dairy-house  and 
the  new  barn,  uncertain  as  to  what  he  should  do  next. 

As  he  waited  there,  his  foreman  came  out  of  the  men's 
bunk  house,  on  the  other  side  of  the  kitchens,  and  crossed 
over  toward  the  barn.  "  Hello,  Billy/'  muttered  Annix- 
ter as  he  passed. 

"Oh,  good  evening,  Mr.  Annixter,"  said  the  other, 
pausing  in  front  of  him.  "  I  didn't  know  you  were  back. 
By  the  way,"  he  added,  speaking  as  though  the  matter 
was  already  known  to  Annixter,  "  I  see  old  man  Tree  and 
his  family  have  left  us.  Are  they  going  to  be  gone  long  ? 
Have  they  left  for  good?" 

"What's  that?"  Annixter  exclaimed.  "When  did 
they  go?  Did  all  of  them  go,  all  three?" 


364  The  Octopus 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  knew.  Sure,  they  all  left  on 
the  afternoon  train  for  San  Francisco.  Cleared  out  in  a 
hurry — took  all  their  crunks.  Yes,  all  three  went — the 
young  lady,  too.  They  gave  me  notice  early  this  morn- 
ing. They  ain't  ought  to  have  done  that.  I  don't  know 
who  I'm  to  get  to  run  the  dairy  on  such  short  notice.  Do 
you  know  any  one,  Mr.  Annixter  ?  " 

"Well,  why  in  hell  did  you  let  them  go?  "  vociferated 
Annixter.  "Why  didn't  you  keep  them  here  till  I  got 
back?  Why  didn't  you  find  out  if  they  were  going  for 
good?  I  can't  be  everywhere.  What  do  I  feed  you  for 
if  it  ain't  to  look  after  things  I  can't  attend  to?  " 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  strode  away  straight  before 
him,  not  caring  where  he  was  going.  He  tramped  out 
from  the  group  of  ranch  buildings ;  holding  on  over  the 
open  reach  of  his  ranch,  his  teeth  set,  his  heels  digging 
furiously  into  the  ground.  The  minutes  passed.  He 
walked  on  swiftly,  muttering  to  himself  from  time  to 
time. 

"  Gone,  by  the  Lord.  Gone,  by  the  Lord.  By  the 
Lord  Harry,  she's  cleared  out." 

As  yet  his  head  was  empty  of  all  thought.  He  could 
not  steady  his  wits  to  consider  this  new  turn  of  affairs. 
He  did  not  even  try. 

"  Gone,  by  the  Lord,"  he  exclaimed.  "  By  the  Lord, 
she's  cleared  out." 

He  found  the  irrigating  ditch,  and  the  beaten  path 
made  by  the  ditch  tenders  that  bordered  it,  and  followed 
it  some  five  minutes ;  then  struck  off  at  right  angles  over 
the  rugged  surface  of  the  ranch  land,  to  where  a  great 
white  stone  jutted  from  the  ground.  There  he  sat  down, 
and  leaning  forward,  rested  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and 
looked  out  vaguely  into  the  night,  his  thoughts  swiftly 
readjusting  themselves. 

He  was  alone.     The  silence  of  the  night,  the  infinite 


A  Story  of  California  365 

repose  of  the  flat,  bare  earth — two  immensities — widened 
around  and  above  him  like  illimitable  seas.  A  grey  half- 
light,  mysterious,  grave,  flooded  downward  from  the 
stars. 

Annixter  was  in  torment.  Now,  there  could  be 
no  longer  any  doubt — now  it  was  Hilma  or  nothing. 
Once  out  of  his  reach,  once  lost  to  him,  and  the  recollec- 
tion of  her  assailed  him  with  unconquerable  vehemence. 
Much  as  she  had  occupied  his  mind,  he  had  never  realised 
till  now  how  vast  had  been  the  place  she  had  rilled  in  his 
life.  He  had  told  her  as  much,  but  even  then  he  did  not 
believe  it. 

Suddenly,  a  bitter  rage  against  himself  overwhelmed 
him  as  he  thought  of  the  hurt  he  had  given  her  the  previ- 
ous evening.  He  should  have  managed  differently. 
How,  he  did  not  know,  but  the  sense  of  the  outrage  he 
had  put  upon  her  abruptly  recoiled  against  him  with 
cruel  force.  Now,  he  was  sorry  for  it,  infinitely  sorry, 
passionately  sorry.  He  had  hurt  her.  He  had  brought 
the  tears  to  her  eyes.  He  had  so  flagrantly  insulted  her 
that  she  could  no  longer  bear  to  breathe  the  same  air 
with  him.  She  had  told  her  parents  all.  She  had  left 
Quien  Sabe — had  left  him  for  good,  at  the  very  moment 
when  he  believed  he  had  won  her.  Brute,  beast  that  he 
was,  he  had  driven  her  away. 

An  hour  went  by ;  then  two,  then  four,  then  six.  An- 
nixter still  sat  in  his  place,  groping  and  battling  in  a  con- 
fusion of  spirit,  the  like  of  which  he  had  never  felt  before. 
He  did  not  know  what  was  the  matter  with  him.  He 
could  not  find  his  way  out  of  the  dark  and  out  of  the 
turmoil  that  wheeled  around  him.  He  had  had  no  ex- 
perience with  women.  There  was  no  precedent  to  guide 
him.  How  was  he  to  get  out  of  this?  What  was  the 
clew  that  would  set  everything  straight  again  ? 

That  he  would  give  Hilma  up,  never  once  entered  his 


366  The  Octopus 

head.  Have  her  he  would.  She  had  given  herself  to 
him.  Everything  should  have  been  easy  after  that,  and 
instead,  here  he  was  alone  in  the  night,  wrestling  with 
himself,  in  deeper  trouble  han  ever,  and  Hilma  farther 
than  ever  away  from  him. 

It  was  true,  he  might  have  Hilma,  even  now,  if  he 
was  willing  to  marry  her.  But  marriage,  to  his  mind, 
had  been  always  a  vague,  most  remote  possibility,  almost 
as  vague  and  as  remote  as  his  death, — a  thing  that  hap- 
pened to  some  men,  but  that  would  surely  never  occur 
to  him,  or,  if  it  did,  it  would  be  after  long  years  had 
passed,  when  he  was  older,  more  settled,  more  mature — 
an  event  that  belonged  to  the  period  of  his  middle  life, 
distant  as  yet. 

He  had  never  faced  the  question  of  his  marriage,  He 
had  kept  it  at  an  immense  distance  from  him.  It  had 
never  been  a  part  of  his  order  of  things.  He  was  not  a 
marrying  man. 

But  Hilma  was  an  ever-present  reality,  as  near  to  him 
as  his  right  hand.  Marriage  was  a  formless,  far  distant 
abstraction.  Hilma  a  tangible,  imminent  fact.  Before 
he  could  think  of  the  two  as  one;  before  he  could  con- 
sider the  idea  of  marriage,  side  by  side  with  the  idea  of 
Hilma,  measureless  distances  had  to  be  traversed,  things 
as  disassociated  in  his  mind  as  fire  and  water,  had  to  be 
fused  together;  and  between  the  two  he  was  torn  as  if 
upon  a  rack. 

Slowly,  by  imperceptible  degrees,  the  imagination, 
unused,  unwilling  machine,  began  to  work.  The  brain's 
activity  lapsed  proportionately.  He  began  to  think  less, 
and  feel  more.  In  that  rugged  composition,  confused, 
dark,  harsh,  a  furrow  had  been  driven  deep,  a  little  seed 
planted,  a  little  seed  at  first  weak,  forgotten,  lost  in  the 
lower  dark  places  of  his  character. 

But  as  the  intellect  moved  slower,  its  functions  grow- 


A  Story  of  California  367 

ing  numb,  the  idea  of  self  dwindled.  Annixter  no  longer 
considered  himself;  no  longer  considered  the  notion  of 
marriage  from  the  point  of  view  of  his  own  comfort,  his 
own  wishes,  his  own  advantage.  He  realised  that  in  his 
new-found  desire  to  make  her  happy,  he  was  sincere. 
There  was  something  in  that  idea,  after  all.  To  make 
some  one  happy — how  about  that  now?  It  was  worth 
thinking  of. 

Far  away,  low  down  in  the  east,  a  dim  belt,  a  grey 
light  began  to  whiten  over  the  horizon.  The  tower  of 
the  Mission  stood  black  against  it.  The  dawn  was  com- 
ing. The  baffling  obscurity  of  the  night  was  passing. 
Hidden  things  were  coming  into  view. 

Annixter,  his  eyes  half-closed,  his  chin  upon  his  fist, 
allowed  his  imagination  full  play.  How  would  it  be  if  he 
should  take  Hilma  into  his  life,  this  beautiful  young  girl, 
pure  as  he  now  knew  her  to  be ;  innocent,  noble  with  the 
inborn  nobility  of  dawning  womanhood?  An  over- 
whelming sense  of  his  own  umvorthiness  suddenly  bore 
down  upon  him  with  crushing  force,  as  he  thought  of 
this.  He  had  gone  about  the  whole  affair  wrongly.  He 
had  been  mistaken  from  the  very  first.  She  was  infinitely 
above  him.  He  did  not  want — he  should  not  desire  to 
be  the  master.  It  was  she,  his  servant,  poor,  simple, 
lowly  even,  who  should  condescend  to  him. 

Abruptly  there  was  presented  to  his  mind's  eye  a  pic- 
ture of  the  years  to  come, if  he  now  should  follow  his  best, 
his  highest,  his  most  unselfish  impulse.  He  saw  Hilma, 
his  own,  for  better  or  for  worse,  for  richer  or  for  poorer, 
all  barriers  down  between  them,  he  giving  himself  to  her 
as  freely,  as  nobly,  as  she  had  given  herself  to  him.  By 
a  supreme  effort,  not  of  the  will,  but  of  the  emotion,  he 
fought  his  way  across  that  vast  gulf  that  for  a  time  had 
gaped  between  Hilma  and  the  idea  of  his  marriage.  In- 
stantly, like  the  swift  blending  of  beautiful  colours,  like 


368  The  Octopus 

the  harmony  of  beautiful  chords  of  music,  the  two  ideas 
melted  into  one,  and  in  that  moment  into  his  harsh,  un- 
lovely world  a  new  idea  was  born.  Annixter  stood  sud- 
denly upright,  a  mighty  tenderness,  a  gentleness  of  spirit, 
such  as  he  had  never  conceived  of,  in  his  heart  strained, 
swelled,  and  in  a  moment  seemed  to  burst.  Out  of  the 
dark  furrows  of  his  soul,  up  from  the  deep  rugged  re- 
cesses of  his  being,  something  rose,  expanding.  He 
opened  his  arms  wide.  An  immense  happiness  overpow- 
ered him.  Actual  tears  came  to  his  eyes.  Without 
knowing  why,  he  was  not  ashamed  of  it.  This  poor, 
crude  fellow,  harsh,  hard,  narrow,  with  his  unlovely  na- 
ture, his  fierce  truculency,  his  selfishness,  his  obstinacy, 
abruptly  knew  that  all  the  sweetness  of  life,  all  the  great 
vivifying  eternal  force  of  humanity  had  burst  into  li-fe 
within  him. 

The  little  seed,  long  since  planted,  gathering  strength 
quietly,  had  at  last  germinated. 

Then  as  the  realisation  of  this  hardened  into  certainty, 
in  the  growing  light  of  the  new  day  that  had  just  dawned 
for  him,  Annixter  uttered  a  cry.  Now  at  length,  he 
knew  the  meaning  of  it  all. 

"  Why— I— I,  I  love  her,"  he  cried.  Never  until  then 
had  it  occurred  to  him.  Never  until  then,  in  all  his 
thoughts  of  Hilma,  had  that  great  word  passed  his  lips. 

It  was  a  Memnonian  cry,  the  greeting  of  the  hard, 
harsh  image  of  man,  rough-hewn,  flinty,  granitic,  utter- 
ing a  note  of  joy,  acclaiming  the  new  risen  sun. 

By  now  it  was  almost  day.  The  east  glowed  opales- 
cent. All  about  him  Annixter  saw  the  land  inundated 
with  light.  But  there  was  a  change.  Overnight  some- 
thing had  occurred.  In  his  perturbation  the  change 
seemed  to  him,  at  first,  elusive,  almost  fanciful,  unreal. 
But  now  as  the  light  spread,  he  looked  again  at  the 
gigantic  scroll  of  ranch  lands  unrolled  before  him  from 


A  Story  of  California  369 

edge  to  edge  of  the  horizon.  The  change  was  not  fanci- 
ful. The  change  was  real.  The  earth  was  no  longer 
bare.  The  land  was  no  longer  barren, — no  longer  empty, 
no  longer  dull  brown.  All  at  once  Annixter  shouted 
aloud. 

There  it  was,  the  Wheat,  the  Wheat!  The  little  seed 
long  planted,  germinating  in  the  deep,  dark  furrows  of 
the  soil,  straining,  swelling,  suddenly  in  one  night  had 
burst  upward  to  the  light.  The  wheat  had  come  up.  It 
was  there  before  him,  around  him,  everywhere,  illimita- 
ble, immeasurable.  The  winter  brownness  of  the  ground 
was  overlaid  with  a  little  shimmer  of  green.  The  prom- 
ise of  the  sowing  was  being  fulfilled.  The  earth,  the 
loyal  mother,  who  never  failed,  who  never  disappointed, 
was  keeping  her  faith  again.  Once  more  the  strength 
of  nations  was  renewed.  Once  more  the  force  of  the 
world  was  revivified.  Once  more  the  Titan,  benignant, 
calm,  stirred  and  woke,  and  the  morning  abruptly  blazed 
into  glory  upon  the  spectacle  of  a  man  whose  heart 
leaped  exuberant  with  the  love  of  a  woman,  and  an  ex- 
ulting earth  gleaming  transcendent  with  the  radiant 
magnificence  of  an  inviolable  pledge. 
24 


Ill 


Presley's  room  in  the  ranch  house  of  Los  Muertos 
was  in  the  second  story  of  the  building.  It  was  a  corner 
room ;  one  of  its  windows  facing  the  south,  the  other  the 
east.  Its  appointments  were  of  the  simplest.  In  one 
angle  was  the  small  white  painted  iron  bed,  covered  with 
a  white  counterpane.  The  walls  were  hung  with  a  white 
paper  figured  with  knots  of  pale  green  leaves,  very  gay 
and  bright.  There  was  a  straw  matting  on  the  floor. 
White  muslin  half-curtains  hung  in  the  windows,  upon 
the  sills  of  which  certain  plants  bearing  pink  waxen 
flowers  of  which  Presley  did  not  know  the  name,  grew 
in  oblong  green  boxes.  The  walls  were  unadorned,  save 
by  two  pictures,  one  a  reproduction  of  the  "  Reading 
from  Homer,"  the  other  a  charcoal  drawing  of  the  Mis- 
sion of  San  Juan  de  Guadalajara,  which  Presley  had 
made  himself.  By  the  east  window  stood  the  plainest 
of  deal  tables,  innocent  of  any  cloth  or  covering,  such  as 
might  have  been  used  in  a  kitchen.  It  was  Presley's 
work  table,  and  was  invariably  littered  with  papers,  half- 
finished  manuscripts,  drafts  of  poems,  notebooks,  pens, 
half-smoked  cigarettes,  and  the  like.  Near  at  hand,  upon 
a  shelf,  were  his  books.  There  were  but  two  chairs  in 
the  room — the  straight  backed  wooden  chair,  that  stood 
in  front  of  the  table,  angular,  upright,  and  in  which  it 
was  impossible  to  take  one's  ease,  and  the  long  comforta- 
ble wicker  steamer  chair,  stretching  its  length  in  front 
of  the  south  window.  Presley  was  immensely  fond  of 
this  room.  It  amused  and  interested  him  to  maintain  its 


A  Story  of  California  371 

air  of  rigorous  simplicity  and  freshness.  He  abhorred 
cluttered  bric-a-brac  and  meaningless  objets  cTart.  Once 
in  so  often  he  submitted  his  room  to  a  vigorous  inspec- 
tion; setting  it  to  rights,  removing  everything  but  the 
essentials,  the  few  ornaments  which,  in  a  way,  were  part 
of  his  life. 

His  writing  had  by  this  time  undergone  a  complete 
change.  The  notes  for  his  great  Song  of  the  West,  the 
epic  poem  he  once  had  hoped  to  write  he  had  flung  aside, 
together  with  all  the  abortive  attempts  at  its  beginning. 
Also  he  had  torn  up  a  great  quantity  of  "  fugitive " 
verses,  preserving  only  a  certain  half-finished  poem,  that 
he  called  "  The  Toilers."  This  poem  was  a  comment 
upon  the  social  fabric,  and  had  been  inspired  by  the  sight 
of  a  painting  he  had  seen  in  Cedarquist's  art  gallery. 
He  had  written  all  but  the  last  verse. 

On  the  day  that  he  had  overheard  the  conversation  be- 
tween Dyke  and  Caraher,  in  the  latter's  saloon,  which 
had  acquainted  him  with  the  monstrous  injustice  of  the 
increased  tariff,  Presley  had  returned  to  Los  Muertos, 
white  and  trembling,  roused  to  a  pitch  of  exaltation,  the 
like  of  which  he  had  never  known  in  all  his  life.  His 
wrath  was  little  short  of  even  Caraher 's.  He  too- "  saw 
red"  ;  a  mighty  spirit  of  revolt  heaved  tumultuous  within 
him.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that  this  outrage  could 
go  on  much  longer.  The  oppression  was  incredible ;  the 
plain  story  of  it  set  down  in  truthful  statement  of  fact 
would  not  be  believed  by  the  outside  world. 

He  went  up  to  his  little  room  and  paced  the  floor  with 
clenched  fists  and  burning  face,  till  at  last,  the  repression 
of  his  contending  thoughts  all  but  suffocated  him,  and 
he  flung  himself  before  his  table  and  began  to  write. 
For  a  time,  his  pen  seemed  to  travel  of  itself;  words  came 
to  him  without  searching,  shaping  themselves  into 
phrases, — the  phrases  building  themselves  up  to  great, 


372  The  Octopus 

forcible  sentences,  full  of  eloquence,  of  fire,  of  passion. 
As  his  prose  grew  more  exalted,  it  passed  easily  into  the 
domain  of  poetry.  Soon  the  cadence  of  his  paragraphs 
settled  to  an  ordered  beat  and  rhythm,  and  in  the  end 
Presley  had  thrust  aside  his  journal  and  was  once  more 
writing  verse. 

He  picked  up  his  incomplete  poem  of  "  The  Toilers," 
read  it  hastily  a  couple  of  times  to  catch  its  swing,  then 
the  Idea  of  the  last  verse — the  Idea  for  which  he  so  long 
had  sought  in  vain — abruptly  springing  to  his  brain, 
wrote  it  off  without  so  much  as  replenishing  his  pen  with 
ink.  He  added  still  another  verse,  bringing  the  poem  to 
a  definite  close,  resuming  its  entire  conception,  and  end- 
ing with  a  single  majestic  thought,  simple,  noble,  digni- 
fied, absolutely  convincing. 

Presley  laid  down  his  pen  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
with  the  certainty  that  for  one  moment  he  had  touched 
untrod  heights.  His  hands  were  cold,  his  head  on  fire, 
his  heart  leaping  tumultuous  in  his  breast. 

Now  at  last,  he  had  achieved.  He  saw  why  he  had 
never  grasped  the  inspiration  for  his  vast,  vague,  imper- 
sonal Song  of  the  West.  At  the  time  when  he  sought 
for  it,  his  convictions  had  not  been  aroused;  he  had  not 
then  cared  for  the  People.  His  sympathies  had  not  been 
touched.  Small  wonder  that  he  had  missed  it.  Now  he 
was  of  the  People;  he  had  been  stirred  to  his  lowest 
depths.  His  earnestness  was  almost  a  frenzy.  He 
believed,  and  so  to  him  all  things  were  possible  at 
once. 

Then  the  artist  in  him  reasserted  itself.  He  became 
more  interested  in  his  poem,  as  such,  than  in  the  cause 
that  had  inspired  it.  He  went  over  it  again,  retouching 
it  carefully,  changing  a  word  here  and  there,  and  im- 
proving its  rhythm.  For  the  moment,  he  forgot  the 
People,  forgot  his  rage,  his  agitation  of  the  previous 


A  Story  of  California  373 

hour,  he  remembered  only  that  he  had  written  a  great 
poem. 

Then  doubt  intruded.  After  all,  was  it  so  great? 
Did  not  its  sublimity  overpass  a  little  the  bounds  of  the 
ridiculous?  Had  he  seen  true?  Had  he  failed  again? 
He  re-read  the  poem  carefully ;  and  it  seemed  all  at  once 
to  lose  force. 

By  now,  Presley  could  not  tell  whether  what  he  had 
written  was  true  poetry  or  doggerel.  He  distrusted  pro- 
foundly his  own  judgment.  He  must  have  the  opinion 
of  some  one  else,  some  one  competent  to  judge.  He 
could  not  wait;  to-morrow  would  not  do.  He  must 
know  to  a  certainty  before  he  could  rest  that  night. 

He  made  a  careful  copy  of  what  he  had  written,  and 
putting  on  his  hat  and  laced  boots,  went  down  stairs  and 
out  upon  the  lawn,  crossing  over  to  the  stables.  He 
found  Phelps  there,  washing  down  the  buckboard. 

"  Do  you  know  where  Vanamee  is  to-day?  "  he  asked 
the  latter.  Phelps  put  his  chin  in  the  air. 

"  Ask  me  something  easy/'  he  responded.  "  He  might 
be  at  Guadalajara,  or  he  might  be  up  at  Osterman's,  or 
he  might  be  a  hundred  miles  away  from  either  place.  I 
know  where  he  ought  to  be,  Mr.  Presley,  but  that  ain't 
saying  where  the  crazy  gesabe  is.  He  ought  to  be  range- 
riding  over  east  of  Four,  at  the  head  waters  of  Mission 
Creek." 

"  I'll  try  for  him  there,  at  all  events,"  answered  Pres- 
ley. "  If  you  see  Harran  when  he  comes  in,  tell  him  I 
may  not  be  back  in  time  for  supper." 

Presley  found  the  pony  in  the  corral,  cinched  the  sad- 
dle upon  him,  and  went  off  over  the  Lower  Road,  going 
eastward  at  a  brisk  canter. 

At  Hooven's  he  called  a  "  How  do  you  do  "  to  Minna, 
whom  he  saw  lying  in  a  slat  hammock  under  the  mam- 
moth live  oak,  her  foot  in  bandages;  and  then  galloped 


374  The  Octopus 

on  over  the  bridge  across  the  irrigating  ditch,  wondering 
vaguely  what  would  become  of  such  a  pretty  girl  as 
Minna,  and  if  in  the  end  she  would  marry  the  Portuguese 
foreman  in  charge  of  the  ditching-gang.  He  told  him- 
self that  he  hoped  she  would,  and  that  speedily.  There 
was  no  lack  of  comment  as  to  Minna  Hooven  about  the 
ranches.  Certainly  she  was  a  good  girl,  but  she  was 
seen  at  all  hours  here  and  there  about  Bonneville  and 
Guadalajara,  skylarking  with  the  Portuguese  farm  hands 
of  Quien  Sabe  and  Los  Muertos.  She  was  very  pretty ; 
the  men  made  fools  of  themselves  over  her.  Presley 
hoped  they  would  not  end  by  making  a  fool  of  her. 

Just  beyond  the  irrigating  ditch,  Presley  left  the  Lower 
Road,  and  following  a  trail  that  branched  oft'  southeast- 
erly from  this  point,  held  on  across  the  Fourth  Division 
of  the  ranch,  keeping  the  Mission  Creek  on  his  left.  A 
few  miles  farther  on,  he  went  through  a  gate  in  a  barbed 
\\ire  fence,  and  at  once  engaged  himself  in  a  system  of 
little  arroyos  and  low  rolling  hills,  that  steadily  lifted 
and  increased  in  size  as  he  proceeded.  This  higher 
ground  was  the  advance  guard  of  the  Sierra  foothills, 
and  served  as  the  stock  range  for  Los  Muertos.  The 
hills  were  huge  rolling  hummocks  of  bare  ground,  cov- 
ered only  by  wild  oats.  At  long  intervals,  were  isolated 
live  oaks.  In  the  canons  and  arroyos,  the  chaparral 
and  manzanita  grew  in  dark  olive-green  thickets.  The 
ground  was  honey-combed  with  gopher-holes,  and  the 
gophers  themselves  were  everywhere.  Occasionally  a 
jack  rabbit  bounded  across  the  open,  from  one  growth  of 
chaparral  to  another,  taking  long  leaps,  his  ears  erect. 
High  overhead,  a  hawk  or  two  swung  at  anchor,  and 
once,  with  a  startling  rush  of  wings,  a  covey  of  quail 
flushed  from  the  brush  at  the  side  of  the  trail. 

On  the  hillsides,  in  thinly  scattered  groups  were  the 
cattle,  grazing  deliberately,  working  slowly  toward  the 


A  Story  of  California  375 

water-holes  for  their  evening  drink,  the  horses  keeping 
to  themselves,  the  colts  nuzzling  at  their  mothers'  bellies, 
whisking  their  tails,  stamping  their  unshod  feet.  But 
once  in  a  remoter  field,  solitary,  magnificent,  enormous, 
the  short  hair  curling  tight  upon  his  forehead,  his  small 
red  eyes  twinkling,  his  vast  neck  heavy  with  muscles, 
Presley  came  upon  the  monarch,  the  king,  the  great  Dur- 
ham bull,  maintaining  his  lonely  state,  unapproachable, 
austere. 

Presley  found  the  one-time  shepherd  by  a  water-hole, 
in  a  far  distant  corner  of  the  range.  He  had  made  his 
simple  camp  for  the  night.  His  blue-grey  army  blanket 
lay  spread  under  a  live  oak,  his  horse  grazed  near  at 
hand.  He  himself  sat  on  his  heels  before  a  little  fire  of 
dead  manzanita  roots^  cooking  his  coffee  and  bacon. 
Never  had  Presley  conceived  so  keen  an  impression  of 
loneliness  as  his  crouching  figure  presented.  The  bald, 
bare  landscape  widened  about  him  to  infinity.  Vanamee 
was  a  spot  in  it  all,  a  tiny  dot,  a  single  atom  of  human 
organisation,  floating  endlessly  on  the  ocean  of  an  il- 
limitable nature. 

The  two  friends  ate  together,  and  Vanamee,  having 
snared  a  brace  of  quails,  dressed  and  then  roasted  them 
on  a  sharpened  stick.  After  eating,  they  drank  great 
refreshing  draughts  from  the  water-hole.  Then,  at 
length,  Presley  having  lit  his  cigarette,  and  Vanamee  his 
pipe,  the  former  said: 

"  Vanamee,  I  have  been  writing  again." 

Vanamee  turned  his  lean  ascetic  face  toward  him,  his 
black  eyes  fixed  attentively. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  "your  journal." 

"  No,  this  is  a  poem.  You  remember,  I  told  you  about 
it  once.  '  The  Toilers,'  I  called  it." 

"  Oh,  verse !  Well,  I  am  glad  you  have  gone  back  to 
it.  It  is  your  natural  vehicle." 


376  The  Octopus 

"  You  remember  the  poem?  "  asked  Presley.  "  It  was 
unfinished." 

"  Yes,  I  remember  it.  There  was  better  promise  in  it 
than  anything  you  ever  wrote.  Now,  I  suppose,  you 
have  finished  it." 

Without  reply,  Presley  brought  it  from  out  the  breast 
pocket  of  his  shooting  coat.  The  moment  seemed  pro- 
pitious. The  stillness  of  the  vast,  bare  hills  was  pro- 
found. The  sun  was  setting  in  a  cloudless  brazier  of  red 
light ;  a  golden  dust  pervaded  all  the  landscape.  Presley 
read  his  poem  aloud.  When  he  had  finished,  his  friend 
looked  at  him. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  lately  ? "  he  demanded. 
Presley,  wondering,  told  of  his  various  comings  and 
goings. 

"  I  don't  mean  that,"  returned  the  other.  "  Something 
has  happened  to  you,  something  has  aroused  you.  I  am 
right,  am  I  not?  Yes,  I  thought  so.  In  this  poem  of 
yours,  you  have  not  been  trying  to  make  a  sounding 
piece  of  literature.  You  wrote  it  under  tremendous 
stress.  Its  very  imperfections  show  that.  It  is  better 
than  a  mere  rhyme.  It  is  an  Utterance — a  Message.  It 
is  Truth.  You  have  come  back  to  the  primal  heart  of 
things,  and  you  have  seen  clearly.  Yes,  it  is  a  great 
poem." 

"  Thank  you,"  exclaimed  Presley  fervidly.  "  I  had 
begun  to  mistrust  myself." 

"  Now/'  observed  Vanamee,  "  I  presume  you  will  rush 
it  into  print.  To  have  formulated  a  great  thought, 
simply  to  have  accomplished,  is  not  enough." 

"I  think  I  am  sincere,"  objected  Presley.  "If  it  is 
good  it  will  do  good  to  others.  You  said  yourself  it  was 
a  Message.  If  it  has  any  value,  I  do  not  think  it  would 
be  right  to  keep  it  back  from  even  a  very  small  and  most 
indifferent  public." 


A  Story  of  California  377 

"  Don't  publish  it  in  the  magazines  at  all  events,"  Van- 
amee  answered.  "  Your  inspiration  has  come  from  the 
People.  Then  let  it  go  straight  to  the  People — not  the 
literary  readers  of  the  monthly  periodicals,  the  rich,  who 
would  only  be  indirectly  interested.  If  you  must  publish 
it,  let  it  be  in  the  daily  press.  Don't  interrupt.  I  know 
what  you  will  say.  It  will  be  that  the  daily  press  is  com- 
mon, is  vulgar,  is  undignified ;  and  I  tell  you  that  such  a 
poem  as  this  of  yours,  called  as  it  is,  '  The  Toilers/  must 
be  read  by  the  Toilers.  It  must  be  common ;  it  must  be 
vulgarised.  You  must  not  stand  upon  your  dignity  with 
the  People,  if  you  are  to  reach  them." 

"That  is  true,  I  suppose,"  Presley  admitted,  "but  I 
can't  get  rid  of  the  idea  that  it  would  be  throwing  my 
poem  away.  The  great  magazine  gives  me  such — a—- 
background ;  gives  me  such  weight." 

"  Gives  you  such  weight,  gives  you  such  background. 
Is  it  yourself  you  think  of?  You  helper  of  the  helpless. 
Is  that  your  sincerity?  You  must  sink  yourself;  must 
forget  yourself  and  your  own  desire  of  fame,  of  admitted 
success.  It  is  your  poem,  your  message,  that  must  pre- 
vail,— not  you,  who  wrote  it.  You  preach  a  doctrine  of 
abnegation,  of  self-obliteration,  and  you  sign  your  name 
to  your  words  as  high  on  the  tablets  as  you  can  reach,  so 
that  all  the  world  may  see,  not  the  poem,  but  the  poet. 
Presley,  there  are  many  like  you.  The  social  reformer 
writes  a  book  on  the  iniquity  of  the  possession  of  land, 
and  out  of  the  proceeds,  buys  a  corner  lot.  The  econo- 
mist who  laments  the  hardships  of  the  poor,  allows  him- 
self to  grow  rich  upon  the  sale  of  his  book." 

But  Presley  would  hear  no  further. 

"  No,"  he  cried,  "  I  know  I  am  sincere,  and  to  prove  it 
to  you,  I  will  publish  my  poem,  as  you  say,  in  the  daily 
press,  and  I  will  accept  no  money  for  it." 

They  talked  on  for  about  an  hour,  while  the  evening 


The  Octopus 

wore  away.  Presley  very  soon  noticed  that  Vanamee  was 
again  preoccupied.  More  than  ever  of  late,  his  silence, 
his  brooding  had  increased.  By  and  by  he  rose  abruptly, 
turning  his  head  to  the  north,  in  the  direction  of  the  Mis- 
sion church  of  San  Juan. 

"  I  think,"  he  said  to  Presley,  "  that  I  must  be  going." 

"  Going?    Where  to  at  this  time  of  night?  " 

"  Off  there."     Vanamee  made  an  uncertain  gesture 

toward  the   north.      "  Good-bye,"   and  without   another 

word  he  disappeared  in  the  grey  of  the  twilight.    Presley 

was  left  alone  wondering.     He    found    his    horse,    and, 

tightening  the  girths,  mounted  and  rode  home  under  the 

sheen  of  the  stars,  thoughtful,  his  head  bowed.     Before 

he  went  to  bed  that  night  he  sent  "  The  Toilers  "  to  the 

Sunday  Editor  of  a  daily  newspaper  in  San  Francisco. 

Upon  leaving  Presley,  Vanamee,  his  thumbs  hooked 
into  his  empty  cartridge  belt,  strode  swiftly  down  from 
the  hills  of  the  Los  Muertos  stock-range  and  on  through 
the  silent  town  of  Guadalajara.  His  lean,  swarthy  face, 
with  its  hollow  cheeks,  fine,  black,  pointed  beard,  and  sad 
eyes,  was  set  to  the  northward.  As  was  his  custom,  he 
was  bareheaded,  and  the  rapidity  of  his  stride  made  a 
breeze  in  his  long,  black  hair:  He  knew  where  he  was 
going.  He  knew  what  he  must  live  through  that  night. 

Again,  the  deathless  grief  that  never  slept  leaped  out 
of  the  shadows,  and  fastened  upon  his  shoulders.  It  was 
scourging  him  back  to  that  scene  of  a  vanished  happi- 
ness, a  dead  romance,  a  perished  idyl, — the  Mission  gar- 
den in  the  shade  of  the  venerable  pear  trees. 

But,  besides  this,  other  influences  tugged  at  his  heart. 
There  was  a  mystery  in  the  garden.  In  that  spot  the 
night  was  not  always  empty,  the  darkness  not  always 
silent.  Something  far  off  stirred  and  listened  to  his  cry, 
at  times  drawing  nearer  to  him.  At  first  this  presence 
had  been  a  matter  for  terror;  but  of  late,  as  he  felt  it 


A  Story  of  California  379 

gradually  drawing  nearer,  the  terror  had  at  long  intervals 
given  place  to  a  feeling  of  an  almost  ineffable  sweetness. 
But  distrusting  his  own  senses,  unwilling  to  submit  him- 
self to  such  torturing,  uncertain  happiness,  averse  to  the 
terrible  confusion  of  spirit  that  followed  upon  a  night 
spent  in  the  garden,  Vanamee  had  tried  to  keep  away 
from  the  place.  However,  when  the  sorrow  of  his  life 
reassailed  him,  and  the  thoughts  and  recollections  of 
Angele  brought  the  ache  into  his  heart,  and  the  tears  to 
his  eyes,  the  temptation  to  return  to  the  garden  in- 
variably gripped  him  close.  There  were  times  when  he 
could  not  resist.  Of  themselves,  his  footsteps  turned  in 
that  direction.  It  was  almost  as  if  he  himself  had  been 
called. 

Guadalajara  was  silent,  dark.  Not  even  in  Solotari's 
was  there  a  light.  The  town  was  asleep.  Only  the  in- 
evitable guitar  hummed  from  an  unseen  'dobe.  Vanamee 
pushed  on.  The  smell  of  the  fields  and  open  country  > 
and  a  distant  scent  of  flowers  that  he  knew  well,  came 
to  his  nostrils,  as  he  emerged  from  the  town  by  way  of 
the  road  that  led  on  towards  the  Mission  through  Quien 
Sabe.  On  either  side  of  him  lay  the  brown  earth, 
silently  nurturing  the  implanted  seed.  Two  days  before 
it  had  rained  copiously,  and  the  soil,  still  moist,  disen- 
gaged a  pungent  aroma  of  fecundity. 

Vanamee,  following  the  road,  passed  through  the  col- 
lection of  buildings  of  Annixters  home  ranch.  Every- 
thing slept.  At  intervals,  the  aer-motor  on  the  artesian 
well  creaked  audibly,  as  it  turned  in  a  languid  breeze 
from  the  northeast.  A  cat,  hunting  field-mice,  crept  from 
the  shadow  of  the  gigantic  barn  and  paused  uncertainly 
in  the  open,  the  tip  of  her  tail  twitching.  From  within 
the  barn  itself  came  the  sound  of  the  friction  of  a  heavy 
body  and  a  stir  of  hoofs,  as  one  of  the  dozing  cows  la}! 
down  with  a  long  breath. 


380  The  Octopus 

Vanamee  left  the  ranch  house  behind  him  and  pro- 
ceeded on  his  way.  Beyond  him,  to  the  right  of  the  road, 
he  could  make  out  the  higher  ground  in  the  Mission 
enclosure,  and  the  watching  tower  of  the  Mission  itself. 
The  minutes  passed.  He  went  steadily  forward.  Then 
abruptly  he  paused,  his  head  in  the  air,  eye  and  ear  alert. 
To  that  strange  sixth  sense  of  his,  responsive  as  the  leaves 
of  the  sensitive  plant,  had  suddenly  come  the  impression 
of  a  human  being  near  at  hand.  He  had  neither  seen  nor 
heard,  but  for  all  that  he  stopped  an  instant  in  his  tracks  ; 
then,  the  sensation  confirmed,  went  on  again  with  slow 
steps,  advancing  warily. 

At  last,  his  swiftly  roving  eyes  lighted  upon  an  object, 
just  darker  than  the  grey-brown  of  the  night-ridden  land. 
It  was  at  some  distance  from  the  roadside.  Vanamee 
approached  it  cautiously,  leaving  the  road,  treading  care- 
fully upon  the  moist  clods  of  earth  underfoot.  Twenty 
paces  distant,  he  halted. 

Annixter  was  there,  seated  upon  a  round,  white  rock, 
his  back  towards  him.  He  was  leaning  forward,  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  his  chin  in  his  hands.  He  did  not 
move.  Silent,  motionless,  he  gazed  out  upon  the  flat, 
sombre  land. 

It  was  the  night  wherein  the  master  of  Quien  Sabe 
wrought  out  his  salvation,  struggling  with  Self  from 
dusk  to  dawn.  At  the  moment  when  Vanamee  came 
upon  him,  the  turmoil  within  him  had  only  begun.  The 
heart  of  the  man  had  not  yet  wakened.  The  night  was 
young,  the  dawn  far  distant,  and  all  around  him  the  fields 
of  upturned  clods  lay  bare  and  brown,  empty  of  all  life, 
unbroken  by  a  single  green  shoot. 

For  a  moment,  the  life-circles  of  these  two  men,  of  so 
widely  differing  characters,  touched  each  other,  there  in 
the  silence  of  the  night  under  the  stars.  Then  silently 
Vanamee  withdrew,  going  on  his  way,  wondering  at  the 


A  Story  of  California  381 

trouble  that,  like  himself,  drove  this  hardheaded  man  of 
affairs,  untroubled  by  dreams,  out  into  the  night  to  brood 
over  an  empty  land. 

Then  speedily  he  forgot  all  else.  The  material  world 
drew  off  from  him.  Reality  dwindled  to  a  point  and  van- 
ished like  the  vanishing  of  a  star  at  moonrise.  Earthly 
things  dissolved  and  disappeared,  as  a  strange,  unnamed 
essence  flowed  in  upon  him.  A  new  atmosphere  for  him 
pervaded  his  surroundings.  He  entered  the  world  of  the 
Vision,  of  the  Legend,  of  the  Miracle,  where  all  things 
were  possible.  He  stood  at  the  gate  of  the  Mission 
garden. 

Above  him  rose  the  ancient  tower  of  the  Mission 
church.  Through  the  arches  at  its  summit,  where  swung 
the  Spanish  queen's  bells,  he  saw  the  slow-burning  stars. 
The  silent  bats,  with  flickering  wings,  threw  their  danc- 
ing shadows  on-  the  pallid  surface  of  the  venerable 
fagade. 

Not  the  faintest  chirring  of  a  cricket  broke  the  silence. 
The  bees  were  asleep.  In  the  grasses,  in  the  trees,  deep 
in  the  calix  of  punka  flower  and  magnolia  bloom,  the 
gnats,  the  caterpillars,  the  beetles,  all  the  microscopic, 
multitudinous  life  of  the  daytime  drowsed  and  dozed. 
Not  even  the  minute  scuffling  of  a  lizard  over  the  warm, 
worn  pavement  of  the  colonnade  disturbed  the  infinite 
repose,  the  profound  stillness.  Only  within  the  garden, 
the  intermittent  trickling  of  the  fountain  made  itself 
heard,  flowing  steadily,  marking  off  the  lapse  of  seconds, 
the  progress  of  hours,  the  cycle  of  years,  the  inevitable 
march  of  centuries. 

At  one  time,  the  doorway  before  which  Vanamee  now 
stood  had  been  hermetically  closed.  But  he,  himself,  had 
long  since  changed  that.  He  stood  before  it  for  a  mo- 
ment, steeping  himself  in  the  mystery  and  romance  of  the 
place,  then  raising  he  latch,  pushed  open  the  gate,  en- 


382  The  Octopus 

tered,  and  closed  it  softly  behind  him.  He  was  in  the 
cloister  garden. 

The  stars  were  outz  strewn  thick  and  close  in  the  deep 
blue  of  the  sky,  the  milky  way  glowing  like  a  silver  veiL 
Ursa  Major  wheeled  gigantic  in  the  north.  The  great 
nebula  in  Orion  was  a  whorl  of  shimmering  star  dust. 
Venus  flamed  a  lambent  disk  of  pale  saffron,  low  over  the 
horizon.  From  edge  to  edge  of  the  world  marched  the 
constellations,  like  the  progress  of  emperors,  and  from  the 
innumerable  glory  of  their  courses  a  mysterious  sheen  of 
diaphanous  light  disengaged  itself,  expanding  over  all  the 
earth,  serene,  infinite,  majestic. 

The  little  garden  revealed  itself  but  dimly  beneath  the 
brooding  light,  only  half  emerging  from  the  shadow. 
The  polished  surfaces  of  the  leaves  of  the  pear  trees 
winked  faintly  back  the  reflected  light  as  the  trees  just 
stirred  in  the  uncertain  breeze.  A  blurred  shield  of  silver 
marked  the  ripples  of  the  fountain.  Under  the  flood  of 
dull  blue  lustre,  the  gravelled  walks  lay  vague  amid  the 
grasses,  like  webs  of  white  satin  on  the  bed  of  a  lake. 
Against  the  eastern  wall  the  headstones  of  the  graves,  an 
indistinct  procession  of  grey  cowls  ranged  themselves. 

Vanamee  crossed  the  garden,  pausing  to  kiss  the  turf 
upon  Angele's  grave.  Then  he  approached  the  line  of 
pear  trees,  and  laid  himself  down  in  their  shadow,  his 
chin  propped  upon  his  hands,  his  eyes  wandering  over 
the  expanse  of  the  little  valley  that  stretched  away  from 
the  foot  of  the  hill  upon  which  the  Mission  was  built. 

Once  again  he  summoned  the  Vision.  Once  again  he 
conjured  up  the  Illusion.  Once  again,  tortured  with 
doubt,  racked  with  a  deathless  grief,  he  craved  an  Answer 
of  the  night.  Once  again,  mystic  that  he  was,  he  sent 
his  mind  out  from  him  across  the  enchanted  sea  of  the 
Supernatural.  Hope,  of  what  he  did  not  know,  roused  up 
within  him.  Surely,  on  such  a  night  as  this,  the  hallu- 


A  Story  of  California  383 

cination  must  define  itself.  Surely,  the  Manifestation 
must  be  vouchsafed. 

His  eyes  closed,  his  will  girding  itself  to  a  supreme 
effort,  his  senses  exalted  to  a  state  of  pleasing  numbness, 
he  called  upon  Angele  to  come  to  him,  his  voiceless  cry 
penetrating  far  out  into  that  sea  of  faint,  ephemeral  light 
that  floated  tideless  over  the  little  valley  beneath  him. 
Then  motionless,  prone  upon  the  ground,  he  waited. 

Months  had  passed  since  that  first  night  when,  at 
length,  an  Answer  had  come  to  Vanamee.  At  first, 
startled  out  of  all  composure,  troubled  and  stirred  to  his 
lowest  depths,  because  of  the  very  thing  for  which  he 
sought,  he  resolved  never  again  to  put  his  strange  powers 
to  the  test.  But  for  all  that,  he  had  come  a  second  night 
to  the  garden,  and  a  third,  and  a  fourth.  At  last,  his 
visits  were  habitual.  Night  after  night  he  was  there,  sur- 
rendering himself  to  the  influences  of  the  place,  gradually 
convinced  that  something  did  actually  answer  when  he 
called.  His  faith  increased  as  the  winter  grew  into 
spring.  As  the  spring  advanced  and  the  nights  became 
shorter,  it  crystallised  into  certainty.  Would  he  have 
her  again,  his  love,  long  dead  ?  Would  she  come  to  him 
once  more  out  of  the  grave,  out  of  the  night  ?  He  could 
not  tell ;  he  could  only  hope.  All  that  he  knew  was  that 
his  cry  found  an  answer,  that  his  outstretched  hands, 
groping  in  the  darkness,  met  the  touch  of  other  fingers. 
Patiently  he  waited.  The  nights  became  warmer  as  the 
spring  drew  on.  The  stars  shone  clearer.  The  nights 
seemed  brighter.  For  nearly  a  month  after  the  occasion 
of  his  first  answer  nothing  new  occurred.  Some  nights 
it  failed  him  entirely ;  upon  others  it  was  faint,  illusive. 

Then,  at  last,  the  most  subtle,  the  barest  of  perceptible 
changes  began.  His  groping  mind  far-off  there,  wander- 
ing like  a  lost  bird  over  the  valley,  touched  upon  some 
thing  again,  touched  and  held  it,  and  this  time  drew  it  a 


384  The  Octopus 

single  step  closer  to  him.  His  heart  beating,  the  blood 
surging  in  his  temples,  he  watched  with  the  eyes  of  his 
imagination,  this  gradual  approach.  What  was  coming 
to  him  ?  Who  was  coming  to  him  ?  Shrouded  in  the  ob- 
scurity of  the  night,  whose  was  the  face  now  turned 
towards  his?  Whose  the  footsteps  that  with  such  in- 
finite slowness  drew  nearer  to  where  he  waited?  He  did 
not  dare  to  say. 

His  mind  went  back  many  years  to  that  time  before 
the  tragedy  of  Angele's  death,  before  the  mystery  of  the 
Other.  He  waited  then  as  he  waited  now.  But  then  he 
had  not  waited  in  vain.  Then,  as  now,  he  had  seemed  to 
feel  her  approach,  seemed  to  feel  her  drawing  nearer  and 
nearer  to  their  rendezvous.  Now,  what  would  happen? 
He  did  not  know.  He  waited.  He  waited,  hoping  all 
things.  He  waited,  believing  all  things.  He  waited,  en- 
during all  things.  He  trusted  in  the  Vision. 

Meanwhile,  as  spring  advanced,  the  flowers  in  the  Seed 
ranch  began  to  come  to  life.  Over  the  five  hundred  acres 
whereon  the  flowers  were  planted,  the  widening  growth 
of  vines  and  bushes  spread  like  the  waves  of  a  green  sea. 
Then,  timidly,  colours  of  the  faintest  tints  began  to  ap- 
pear. Under  the  moonlight,  Vanamee  saw  them  ex- 
panding, delicate  pink,  faint  blue,  tenderest  variations  of 
lavender  and  yellow,  white  shimmering  with  reflections 
of  gold,  all  subdued  and  pallid  in  the  moonlight. 

By  degrees,  the  night  became  impregnated  with  the 
perfume  of  the  flowers.  Illusive  at  first,  evanescent  as 
filaments  of  gossamer;  then  as  the  buds  opened,  em- 
phasising itself,  breathing  deeper,  stronger.  An  ex- 
quisite mingling  of  many  odours  passed  continually  over 
the  Mission,  from  the  garden  of  the  Seed  ranch,  meeting 
and  blending  with  the  aroma  of  its  magnolia  buds  and 
punka  blossoms. 

As  the  colours  of  the  flowers  of  the  Seed  ranch  deep- 


A  Story  of  California  385 

ened,  and  as  their  odours  penetrated  deeper  and  more 
distinctly,  as  the  starlight  of  each  succeeding  night  grew 
brighter  and  the  air  became  warmer,  the  illusion  defined 
itself.  By  imperceptible  degrees,  as  Vanamee  waited 
under  the  shadows  of  the  pear  trees,  the  Answer  grew 
nearer  and  nearer.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  distant  glim- 
mer of  the  flowers.  He  heard  nothing  but  the  drip  of 
the  fountain.  Nothing  moved  about  him  but  the  invisi- 
ble, slow-passing  breaths  of  perfume ;  yet  he  felt  the  ap- 
proach of  the  Vision. 

It  came  first  to  about  the  middle  of  the  Seed  ranch 
itself,  some  half  a  mile  away,  where  the  violets  grew; 
shrinking,  timid  flowers,  hiding  close  to  the  ground.  Then 
it  passed  forward  beyond  the  violets,  and  drew  nearer 
and  stood  amid  the  mignonette,  hardier  blooms  that 
dared  look  heavenward  from  out  the  leaves.  A  few 
nights  later  it  left  the  mignonette  behind,  and  advanced 
into  the  beds  of  white  iris  that  pushed  more  boldly  forth 
from  the  earth,  their  waxen  petals  claiming  the  attention. 
It  advanced  then  a  long  step  into  the  proud,  challenging 
beauty  of  the  carnations  and  roses;  and  at  last,  after 
many  nights,  Vanamee  felt  that  it  paused,  as  if  trembling 
at  its  hardihood,  full  in  the  superb  glory  of  the  royal 
lilies  themselves,  that  grew  on  the  extreme  border  of  the 
Seed  ranch  nearest  to  him.  After  this,  there  was  a  cer- 
tain long  wait.  Then,  upon  a  dark  midnight,  it  advanced 
again.  Vanamee  could  scarcely  repress  a  cry.  Now, 
the  illusion  emerged  from  the  flowers.  It  stood,  not 
distant,  but  unseen,  almost  at  the  base  of  the  hill  upon 
whose  crest  he  waited,  in  a  depression  of  the  ground 
where  the  shadows  lay  thickest.  It  was  nearly  within 
earshot. 

The  nights  passed.  The  spring  grew  warmer.  In  the 
daytime  intermittent  rains  freshened  all  the  earth.  The 
flowers  of  the  Seed  ranch  grew  rapidly.  Bud  after  bud 
ai 


386  The  Octopus 

burst  forth,  while  those  already  opened  expanded  to  full 
maturity.  The  colour  of  the  Seed  ranch  deepened. 

One  night,  after  hours  of  waiting,  Vanamee  felt  upon 
his  cheek  the  touch  of  a  prolonged  puff  of  warm  wind, 
breathing  across  the  little  valley  from  out  the  east.  It 
reached  the  Mission  garden  and  stirred  the  branches  of 
the  pear  trees.  It  seemed  veritably  to  be  compounded  of 
the  very  essence  of  the  flowers.  Never  had  the  aroma 
been  so  sweet,  so  pervasive.  It  passed  and  faded,  leaving 
in  its  wake  an  absolute  silence.  Then,  at  length,  the 
silence  of  the  night,  that  silence  to  which  Vanamee  had 
so  long  appealed,  was  broken  by  a  tiny  sound.  Alert, 
half-risen  from  the  ground,  he  listened;  for  now,  at 
length,  he  heard  something.  The  sound  repeated  itself. 
It  came  from  near  at  hand,  from  the  thick  shadow  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill.  What  it  was,  he  could  not  tell,  but  it  did 
not  belong  to  a  single  one  of  the  infinite  similar  noises 
of  the  place  with  which  he  was  so  familiar.  It  was 
neither  the  rustle  of  a  leaf,  the  snap  of  a  parted  twig, 
the  drone  of  an  insect,  the  dropping  of  a  magnolia  blos- 
som. It  was  a  vibration  merely,  faint,  elusive,  impos- 
sible of  definition ;  a  minute  notch  in  the  fine,  keen  edge 
of  stillness. 

Again  the  nights  passed.  The  summer  stars  became 
brighter.  The  warmth  increased.  The  flowers  of  the 
Seed  ranch  grew  still  more.  The  five  hundred  acres  of 
the  ranch  were  carpeted  with  them. 

At  length,  upon  a  certain  midnight,  a  new  light  began 
to  spread  in  the  sky.  The  thin  scimitar  of  the  moon  rose, 
veiled  and  dim  behind  the  earth-mists.  The  light  in- 
creased. Distant  objects,  until  now  hidden,  came  into 
view,  and  as  the  radiance  brightened,  Vanamee,  looking 
down  upon  the  little  valley,  saw  a  spectacle  of  incom- 
parable beauty.  All  the  buds  of  the  Seed  ranch  had 
opened.  The  faint  tints  of  the  flowers  had  deepened,  had 


A  Story  of  California  387 

asserted  themselves.  They  challenged  the  eye.  Pink  be- 
came a  royal  red.  Blue  rose  into  purple.  Yellow  flamed 
into  orange.  Orange  glowed  golden  and  brilliant.  The 
earth  disappeared  under  great  bands  and  fields  of 
resplendent  colour.  Then,  at  length,  the  moon  abruptly 
soared  zenithward  from  out  the  veiling  mist,  passing 
from  one  filmy  haze  to  another.  For  a  moment  there  was 
a  gleam  of  a  golden  light,  and  Vanamee,  his  eyes  search- 
ing the  shade  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  felt  his  heart  sud- 
denly leap,  and  then  hang  poised,  refusing  to  beat.  In 
that  instant  of  passing  light,  something  had  caught  his 
eye.  Something  that  moved,  down  there,  half  in  and  half 
out  of  the  shadow,  at  the  hill's  foot.  It  had  come  and 
gone  in  an  instant.  The  haze  once  more  screened  the 
moonlight.  The  shade  again  engulfed  the  vision.  What 
was  it  he  had  seen?  He  did  not  know.  So  brief  had 
been  that  movement,  the  drowsy  brain  had  not  been 
quick  enough  to  interpret  the  cipher  message  of  the  eye. 
Now  it  was  gone.  But  something  had  been  there.  He 
had  seen  it.  Was  it  the  lifting  of  a  strand  of  hair,  the 
wave  of  a  white  hand,  the  flutter  of  a  garment's  edge  ?  He 
could  not  tell,  but  it  did  not  belong  to  any  of  those  sights 
which  he  had  seen  so  often  in  that  place.  It  was  neither 
the  glancing  of  a  moth's  wing,  the  nodding  of  a  wind- 
touched  blossom,  nor  the  noiseless  flitting  of  a  bat.  It 
was  a  gleam  merely,  faint,  elusive,  impossible  of  defini- 
tion, an  intangible  agitation,  in  the  vast,  dim  blur  of  the 
darkness. 

And  that  was  all.  Until  now  no  single  real  thing  had 
occurred,  nothing  that  Vanamee  could  reduce  to  terms  of 
actuality,  nothing  he  could  put  into  words.  The  mani- 
festation, when  not  recognisable  to  that  strange  sixth 
sense  of  his,  appealed  only  to  the  most  refined,  the  most 
delicate  perception  of  eye  and  ear.  It  was  all  ephemeral, 
filmy,  dreamy,  the  mystic  forming  of  the  Vision — the 


388  The  Octopus 

invisible  developing  a  concrete  nucleus,  the  starlight 
coagulating,  the  radiance  of  the  flowers  thickening  to 
something  actual ;  perfume,  the  most  delicious  fragrance, 
becoming  a  tangible  presence. 

But  into  that  garden  the  serpent  intruded.  Though 
cradled  in  the  slow  rhythm  of  the  dream,  lulled  by  this 
beauty  of  a  summer's  night,  heavy  with  the  scent  of  flow- 
ers, the  silence  broken  only  by  a  rippling  fountain,  the 
darkness  illuminated  by  a  world  of  radiant  blossoms, 
.Vanamee  could  not  forget  the  tragedy  of  the  Other ;  that 
terror  of  many  years  ago, — that  prowler  of  the  night, 
that  strange,  fearful  figure  with  the  unseen  face,  swoop- 
ing in  there  from  out  the  darkness,  gone  in  an  instant, 
yet  leaving  behind  the  trail  and  trace  of  death  and  of 
pollution. 

Never  had  Vanamee  seen  this  more  clearly  than  when 
leaving  Presley  on  the  stock  range  of  Los  Muertos,  he 
had  come  across  to  the  Mission  garden  by  way  of  the 
Quien  Sabe  ranch. 

It  was  the  same  night  in  which  Annixter  out-watched 
the  stars,  coming,  at  last,  to  himself. 

As  the  hours  passed,  the  two  men,  far  apart,  ignoring 
each  other,  waited  for  the  Manifestation, — Annixter  on 
the  ranch,  Vanamee  in  the  garden. 

Prone  upon  his  face,  under  the  pear  trees,  his  forehead 
buried  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  Vanamee  lay  motionless. 
For  the  last  time,  raising  his  head,  he  sent  his  voiceless 
cry  out  into  the  night  across  the  multi-coloured  levels  of 
the  little  valley,  calling  wpon  the  miracle,  summoning  the 
darkness  to  give  Angele  back  to  him,  resigning  himself 
to  the  hallucination.  He  bowed  his  head  upon  his  arm 
again  and  waited.  The  minutes  passed.  The  fountain 
dripped  steadily.  Over  the  hills  a  haze  of  saffron  light 
foretold  the  rising  of  the  full  moon.  Nothing  stirred 
The  silence  was  profound. 


A  Story  of  California  389 

Then,  abruptly,  Vanamee's  right  hand  shut  tight  upon 
his  wrist.  There — there  it  was.  It  began  again,  his 
invocation  was  answered.  Far  off  there,  the  ripple 
formed  again  upon  the  still,  black  pool  of  the  night.  No 
sound,  no  sight;  vibration  merely,  appreciable  by  some 
sublimated  faculty  of  the  mind  as  yet  unnamed.  Rigid, 
his  nerves  taut,  motionless,  prone  on  the  ground,  he 
waited. 

It  advanced  with  infinite  slowness.  Now  it  passed 
through  the  beds  of  violets,  now  through  the  mignonette. 
A  moment  later,  and  he  knew  it  stood  among  the  white 
iris.  Then  it  left  those  behind.  It  was  in  the  splendour 
of  the  red  roses  and  carnations.  It  passed  like  a  moving 
star  into  the  superb  abundance,  the  imperial  opulence  of 
the  royal  lilies.  It  was  advancing  slowly,  but  there  was 
no  pause.  He  held  his  breath,  not  daring  to  raise  his 
head.  It  passed  beyond  the  limits  of  the  Seed  ranch,  and 
entered  the  shade  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  below  him. 
Would  it  come  farther  than  this?  Here  it  had  always 
stopped  hitherto,  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  then,  in 
spite  of  his  efforts,  had  slipped  from  his  grasp  and  faded 
back  into  the  night.  But  now  he  wondered  if  he  had  been 
willing  to  put  forth  his  utmost  strength,  after  all.  Had 
there  not  always  been  an  element  of  dread  in  the  thought 
of  beholding  the  mystery  face  to  face  ?  Had  he  not  even 
allowed  the  Vision  to  dissolve,  the  Answer  to  recede  into 
the  obscurity  whence  it  came  ? 

But  never  a  night  had  been  so  beautiful  as  this.  It 
was  the  full  period  of  the  spring.  The  air  was  a  verita- 
ble caress.  The  infinite  repose  of  the  little  garden, 
sleeping  under  the  night,  was  delicious  beyond  expres- 
sion. It  was  a  tiny  corner  of  the  world,  shut  off,  discreet, 
distilling  romance,  a  garden  of  dreams,  of  enchantments. 

Below,  in  the  little  valley,  the  resplendent  colourations 
of  the  million  flowers,  roses,  lilies,  hyacinths,  carnations, 


The  Octopus 

violets,  glowed  like  incandescence  in  the  golden  light  of 
the  rising  moon.  The  air  was  thick  with  the  perfume, 
heavy  with  it,  clogged  with  it.  The  sweetness  filled  the 
very  mouth.  The  throat  choked  with  it.  Overhead 
wheeled  the  illimitable  procession  of  the  constellations. 
Underfoot,  the  earth  was  asleep.  The  very  flowers  were 
•dreaming.  A  cathedral  hush  overlay  all  the  land,  and  a 
sense  of  benediction  brooded  low, — a  divine  kindliness 
manifesting  itself  in  beauty,  in  peace,  in  absolute  repose. 

It  was  a  time  for  visions.  It  was  the  hour  when 
dreams  come  true,  and  lying  deep  in  the  grasses  beneath 
the  pear  trees,  Vanamee,  dizzied  with  mysticism,  reach- 
ing up  and  out  toward  the  supernatural,  felt,  as  it  were, 
his  mind  begin  to  rise  upward  from  out  his  body.  He 
passed  into  a  state  of  being  the  like  of  which  he  had  not 
known  before.  He  felt  that  his  imagination  was  reshap- 
ing itself,  preparing  to  receive  an  impression  never  ex- 
perienced until  now.  His  body  felt  light  to  him,  then  it 
dwindled,  vanished.  He  saw  with  new  eyes,  heard  with 
new  ears,  felt  with  a  new  heart. 

"  Come  to  me/'  he  murmured. 

Then  slowly  he  felt  the  advance  of  the  Vision.  It  was 
approaching.  Every  instant  it  drew  gradually  nearer. 
At  last,  he  was  to  see.  It  had  left  the  shadow  at  the 
base  of  the  hill ;  it  was  on  the  hill  itself.  Slowly,  stead- 
ily, it  ascended  the  slope;  just  below  him  there,  he  heard 
a  faint  stirring.  The  grasses  rustled  under  the  touch  of 
.a  foot.  The  leaves  of  the  bushes  murmured,  as  a  hand 
brushed  against  them;  a  slender  twig  creaked.  The 
sounds  of  approach  were  more  distinct.  They  came 
nearer.  They  reached  the  top  of  the  hill.  They  were 
within  whispering  distance. 

Vanamee,  trembling,  kept  his  head  buried  in  his  arm. 
The  sounds,  at  length,  paused  definitely.  The  Vision 
could  come  no  nearer.  He  raised  his  head  and  looked 


A  Story  of  California  391 

The  moon  had  risen.  Its  great  shield  of  gold  stood 
over  the  eastern  horizon.  Within  six  feet  of  Vanamee, 
clear  and  distinct,  against  the  disk  of  the  moon,  stood  the 
figure  of  a  young  girl.  She  was  dressed  in  a  gown  of 
scarlet  silk,  with  flowing  sleeves,  such  as  Japanese  wear, 
embroidered  with  flowers  and  figures  of  birds  worked  in 
gold  threads.  On  either  side  of  her  face,  making  three- 
cornered  her  round,  white  forehead,  hung  the  soft  masses 
of  her  hair  of  gold.  Her  hands  hung  limply  at  her  sides. 
But  from  between  her  parted  lips — lips  of  almost  an 
Egyptian  fulness — her  breath  came  slow  and  regular, 
and  her  eyes,  heavy  lidded,  slanting  upwards  toward  the 
temples,  perplexing,  oriental,  were  closed.  She  was 
asleep. 

From  out  this  life  of  flowers,  this  world  of  colour,  this 
atmosphere  oppressive  with  perfume,  this  darkness 
clogged  and  cloyed,  and  thickened  with  sweet  odours,  she 
came  to  him.  She  came  to  him  from  out  of  the  flowers, 
the  smell  of  the  roses  in  her  hair  of  gold,  the  aroma  and 
the  imperial  red  of  the  carnations  in  her  lips,  the  white- 
ness of  the  lilies,  the  perfume  of  the  lilies,  and  the  lilies' 
slender,  balancing  grace  in  her  neck.  Her  hands  disen- 
gaged the  scent  of  the  heliotrope.  The  folds  of  her  scar- 
let gown  gave  off  the  enervating  smell  of  poppies.  Her 
feet  were  redolent  of  hyacinth.  She  stood  before  him,  a 
Vision  realised — a  dream  come  true.  She  emerged  from 
out  the  invisible.  He  beheld  her,  a  figure  of  gold  and 
pale  vermilion,  redolent  of  perfume,  poised  motionless 
in  the  faint  saffron  sheen  of  the  new-risen  moon.  She,  a 
creation  of  sleep,  was  herself  asleep.  She,  a  dream,  was 
herself  dreaming. 

Called  forth  from  out  the  darkness,  from  the  grip  of 
the  earth,  the  embrace  of  the  grave,  from  out  the  memory 
of  corruption,  she  rose  into  light  and  life,  divinely  pure. 
Across  that  white  forehead  was  no  smudge,  no  trace  oi 


392  The  Octopus 

an  earthly  pollution — no  mark  of  a  terrestrial  dishonour. 
He  saw  in  her  the  same  beauty  of  untainted  innocence 
he  had  known  in  his  youth.  Years  had  made  no  differ- 
ence with  her.  She  was  still  young.  It  was  the  old  purity 
that  returned,  the  deathless  beauty,  the  ever-renascent 
life,  the  eternal  consecrated  arid  immortal  youth.  For  a 
few  seconds,  she  stood  there  before  him,  and  he,  upon 
the  ground  at  her  feet,  looked  up  at  her,  spellbound. 
Then,  slowly  she  withdrew.  Still  asleep,  her  eyelids 
closed,  she  turned  from  him,  descending  the  slope.  She 
was  gone. 

Vanamee  started  up,  coming,  as  it  were,  to  himself, 
looking  wildly  about  him.  Sarria  was  there. 

"I  saw  her,"  said  the  priest.  "It  was  Angele,  the 
little  girl,  your  Angele's  daughter.  She  is  like  her 
mother." 

But  Vanamee  scarcely  heard.  He  walked  as  if  in  a 
trance,  pushing  by  Sarria,  going  forth  from  the  garden. 
Angele  or  Angele's  daughter,  it  was  all  one  with  him. 
It  was  She.  Death  was  overcome.  The  grave  van- 
quished. Life,  ever-renewed,  alone  existed.  Time  was 
naught;  change  was  naught;  all  things  were  immortal 
but  evil ;  all  things  eternal  but  grief. 

Suddenly,  the  dawn  came;  the  east  burned  roseate  to- 
ward the  zenith.  Vanamee  walked  on,  he  knew  not 
where.  The  dawn  grew  brighter.  At  length,  he  paused 
upon  the  crest  of  a  hill  overlooking  the  ranches,  and  cast 
his  eye  below  him  to  the  southward.  Then,  suddenly 
flinging  up  his  arms,  he  uttered  a  great  cry. 

There  it  was.  The  Wheat!  The  Wheat!  In  the 
night  it  had  come  up.  It  was  there,  everywhere,  from 
margin  to  margin  of  the  horizon.  The  earth,  long  empty, 
teemed  with  green  life.  Once  more  the  pendulum  of  the 
seasons  swung  in  its  mighty  arc,  from  death  back  to  life. 
Life  out  of  death,  eternity  rising  from  out  dissolution. 


A  Story  of  California  393 

TThere  was  the  lesson.  Angele  was  not  the  symbol,  but 
the  proof  of  immortality.  The  seed  dying,  rotting  and 
corrupting  in  the  earth ;  rising  again  in  life  unconquer- 
able, and  in  immaculate  purity, — Angele  dying  as  she 
gave  birth  to  her  little  daughter,  life  springing  from  her 
death, — the  pure,  unconquerable,  coming  forth  from  the 
defiled.  Why  had  he  not  had  the  knowledge  of  God? 
Thou  fool,  that  which  thou  sowest  is  not  quickened  ex- 
cept it  die.  So  the  seed  had  died.  So  died  Angele.  And 
that  which  thou  sowest,  thou  sowest  not  that  body  that 
shall  be,  but  bare  grain.  It  may  chance  of  wheat,  or  of 
some  other  grain.  The  wheat  called  forth  from  out  the 
darkness,  from  out  the  grip  of  the  earth,  of  the  grave, 
from  out  corruption,  rose  triumphant  into  light  and  life. 
So  Angele,  so  life,  so  also  the  resurrection  of  the  dead. 
It  is  sown  in  corruption.  It  is  raised  in  incorruption. 
It  is  sown  in  dishonour.  It  is  raised  in  glory.  It  is  sown 
in  weakness.  It  is  raised  in  power.  Death  was  swal- 
lowed up  in  Victory. 

The  sun  rose.  The  night  was  over.  The  glory  of  the 
terrestrial  was  one,  and  the  glory  of  the  celestial  was  an- 
other. Then,  as  the  glory  of  sun  banished  the  lesser 
glory  of  moon  and  stars,  Vanamee,  from  his  mountain 
top,  beholding  the  eternal  green  life  of  the  growing 
Wheat,  bursting  its  bonds,  and  in  his  heart  exulting  in 
his  triumph  over  the  grave,  flung  out  his  arms  with  a 
mighty  shout: 

"  Oh,  Death,  where  is  thy  sting?  Oh,  Grave,  where  is 
thy  victory?" 


IV 


Presley's  Socialistic  poem,  "  The  Toilers,"  had  an  enor- 
mous success.  The  editor  of  the  Sunday  supplement  of 
the  San  Francisco  paper  to  which  it  was  sent,  printed  it 
in  Gothic  type,  with  a  scare-head  title  so  decorative  as  to 
be  almost  illegible,  and  furthermore  caused  the  poem  to 
be  illustrated  by  one  of  the  paper's  staff  artists  in  a  most 
impressive  fashion.  The  whole  affair  occupied  an  entire 
page.  Thus  advertised,  the  poem  attracted  attention.  It 
was  promptly  copied  in  New  York,  Boston,  and  Chicago 
papers.  It  was  discussed,  attacked,  defended,  eulogised, 
ridiculed.  It  was  praised  with  the  most  fulsome  adula- 
tion; assailed  with  the  most  violent  condemnation.  Edi- 
torials were  written  upon  it.  Special  articles,  in  literary 
pamphlets,  dissected  its  rhetoric  and  prosody.  The 
phrases  were  quoted, — were  used  as  texts  for  revolution- 
ary sermons,  reactionary  speeches.  It  was  parodied;  it 
was  distorted  so  as  to  read  as  an  advertisement  for  pat- 
ented cereals  and  infants'  foods.  Finally,  the  editor  of 
an  enterprising  monthly  magazine  reprinted  the  poem, 
supplementing  it  by  a  photograph  and  biography  of  Pres- 
ley himself. 

Presley  was  stunned,  bewildered.  He  began  to  wonder 
at  himself.  Was  he  actually  the  "  greatest  American  poet 
since  Bryant  "  ?  He  had  had  no  thought  of  fame  while 
composing  "  The  Toilers."  He  had  only  been  moved  to 
his  heart's  foundations, — thoroughly  in  earnest,  seeing 
clearly, — and  had  addressed  himself  to  the  poem's  com- 
position in  a  happy  moment  when  words  came  easily  to 


A  Story  of  California  395 

him,  and  the  elaboration  of  fine  sentences  was  not  diffi- 
cult. Was  it  thus  fame  was  achieved  ?  For  a  while  he  was 
tempted  to  cross  the  continent  and  go  to  New  York  and 
there  come  unto  his  own,  enjoying  the  triumph  that 
awaited  him.  But  soon  he  denied  himself  this  cheap  re- 
ward. Now  he  was  too  much  in  earnest.  He  wanted 
to  help  his  People,  the  community  in  which  he  lived — - 
the  little  world  of  the  San  Joaquin,  at  grapples  with  the 
Railroad.  The  struggle  had  found  its  poet.  He  told 
himself  that  his  place  was  here.  Only  the  words  of  the 
manager  of  a  lecture  bureau  troubled  him  for  a  moment. 
To  range  the  entire  nation,  telling  all  his  countrymen  of 
the  drama  that  was  working  itself  out  on  this  fringe  of 
the  continent,  this  ignored  and  distant  Pacific  Coast,  rous- 
ing their  interest  and  stirring  them  up  to  action — ap- 
pealed to  him.  It  might  do  great  good.  To  devote  him- 
self to  "  the  Cause,"  accepting  no  penny  of  remuneration ; 
to  give  his  life  to  loosing  the  grip  of  the  iron-hearted 
monster  of  steel  and  steam  would  be  beyond  question 
heroic.  Other  States  than  California  had  their  griev- 
ances. All  over  the  country  the  family  of  cyclops  was 
growing.  He  would  declare  himself  the  champion  of  the 
People  in  their  opposition  to  the  Trust.  He  would  be 
an  apostle,  a  prophet,  a  martyr  of  Freedom. 

But  Presley  was  essentially  a  dreamer,  not  a  man  of 
affairs.  He  hesitated  to  act  at  this  precise  psychological 
moment,  striking  while  the  iron  was  yet  hot,  and  while  he 
hesitated,  other  affairs  near  at  hand  began  to  absorb  his 
attention. 

One  night,  about  an  hour  after  he  had  gone  to  bed,  he 
was  awakened  by  the  sound  of  voices  on  the  porch  of  the 
ranch  house,  and,  descending,  found  Mrs.  Dyke  there 
with  Sidney.  The  ex-engineer's  mother  was  talking  to 
Magnus  and  Harran,  and  crying  as  she  talked.  It 
seemed  that  Dyke  was  missing.  He  had  gone  into  town 


396  The  Octopus 

early  that  afternoon  with  the  wagon  and  team,  and  was 
to  have  been  home  for  supper.  By  now  it  was  ten  o'clock 
and  there  was  no  news  of  him.  Mrs.  Dyke  told  how  she 
first  had  gone  to  QnienSabe,  intending  to  telephone  from 
there  to  Bonneville,  but  Annixter  was  in  San  Francisco, 
and  in  his  absence  the  house  was  locked  up,  and  the  over- 
seer, who  had  a  duplicate  key,  was  himself  in  Bonneville. 
She  had  telegraphed  three  times  from  Guadalajara  to 
Bonneville  for  news  of  her  son,  but  without  result. 
Then,  at  last,  tortured  with  anxiety,  she  had  gone  to 
Hooven's,  taking  Sidney  with  her,  and  had  prevailed 
upon  "  Bismarck  "  to  hitch  up  and  drive  her  across  Los 
Muertos  to  the  Governor's,  to  beg  him  to  telephone  into 
Bonneville,  to  know  what  had  become  of  Dyke. 

While  Harran  rang  up  Central  in  town,  Mrs.  Dyke 
told  Presley  and  Magnus  of  the  lamentable  change  in 
Dyke. 

"  They  have  broken  my  son's  spirit,  Mr.  Derrick,"  she 
said.  "  If  you  were  only  there  to  see.  Hour  after  hour, 
he  sits  on  the  porch  with  his  hands  lying  open  in  his  lap, 
looking  at  them  without  a  word.  He  won't  look  me  in 
the  face  any  more,  and  he  don't  sleep.  Night  after  night, 
he  has  walked  the  floor  until  morning.  And  he  will  go 
on  that  way  for  days  together,  very  silent,  without  a 
word,  and  sitting  still  in  his  chair,  and  then,  all  of  a  sud- 
den, he  will  break  out — oh,  Mr.  Derrick,  it  is  terrible — 
into  an  awful  rage,  cursing,  swearing,  grinding  his  teeth, 
his  hands  clenched  over  his  head,  stamping  so  that  the 
house  shakes,  and  saying  that  if  S.  Behrman  don't  give 
him  back  his  money,  he  will  kill  him  with  his  two  hands. 
But  that  isn't  the  worst,  Mr.  Derrick.  He  goes  to  Mr. 
Caraher's  saloon  now,  and  stays  there  for  hours,  and 
listens  to  Mr.  Caraher.  There  is  something  on  my  son's 
mind ;  I  know  there  is — something  that  he  and  Mr.  Cara- 
her have  talked  over  together,  and  I  can't  find  out  what 


A  Story  of  California  397 

it  is.  Mr.  Caraher  is  a  bad  man,  and  my  son  has  fallen 
under  his  influence."  The  tears  filled  her  eyes.  Bravely, 
she  turned  to  hide  them,  turning  away  to  take  Sidney  in 
her  arms,  putting  her  head  upon  the  little  girl's  shoulder. 

"  I — I  haven't  broken  down  before,  Mr.  Derrick,"  she 
said,  "but  after  we  have  been  so  happy  in  our  little  house, 
just  us  three — and  the  future  seemed  so  bright — oh,  God 
will  punish  the  gentlemen  who  own  the  railroad  for  be- 
ing so  hard  and  cruel." 

Harran  came  out  on  the  porch,  from  the  telephone, 
and  she  interrupted  herself,  fixing  her  eyes  eagerly  upon 
him. 

"  I  think  it  is  all  right,  Mrs.  Dyke,"  he  said,  reassur- 
ingly. "  We  know  where  he  is,  I  believe.  You  and  the 
little  tad  stay  here,  and  Hooven  and  I  will  go  after  him." 

About  two  hours  later,  Harran  brought  Dyke  back  to 
Los  Muertos  in  Hooven's  wagon.  He  had  found  him  at 
Caraher's  saloon,  very  drunk. 

There  was  nothing  maudlin  about  Dyke's  drunkenness. 
In  him  the  alcohol  merely  roused  the  spirit  of  evil,  venge- 
ful, reckless. 

As  the  wagon  passed  out  from  under  the  eucalyptus 
trees  about  the  ranch  house,  taking  Mrs.  Dyke,  Sidney, 
and  the  one-time  engineer  back  to  the  hop  ranch,  Presley 
leaning  from  his  window  heard  the  latter  remark : 

"  Caraher  is  right.  There  is  only  one  thing  they  listen 
to,  and  that's  dynamite." 

The  following  day  Presley  drove  Magnus  over  to 
Guadalajara  to  take  the  train  for  San  Francisco.  But  after 
he  had  said  good-bye  to  the  Governor,  he  was  moved 
to  go  on  to  the  hop  ranch  to  see  the  condition  of  affairs 
in  that  quarter.  He  returned  to  Los  Muertos  over- 
whelmed with  sadness  and  trembling  with  anger.  The 
hop  ranch  that  he  had  last  seen  in  the  full  tide  of  pros- 
perity was  almost  a  ruin.  Work  had  evidently  been 


398  The  Octopus 

abandoned  long  since.  Weeds  were  already  choking  the 
vines.  Everywhere  the  poles  sagged  and  drooped. 
Many  had  even  fallen,  dragging  the  vines  with  them, 
spreading  them  over  the  ground  in  an  inextricable  tangle 
of  dead  leaves,  decaying  tendrils,  and  snarled  string. 
The  fence  was  broken ;  the  unfinished  storehouse,  which 
never  was  to  see  completion,  was  a  lamentable  spectacle 
of  gaping  doors  and  windows — a  melancholy  skeleton. 
Last  of  all,  Presley  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  Dyke  him- 
self, seated  in  his  rocking  chair  on  the  porch,  his  beard 
and  hair  unkempt,  motionless,  looking  with  vague  eyes 
upon  his  hands  that  lay  palm  upwards  and  idle  in  his  lap. 

Magnus  on  his  way  to  San  Francisco  was  joined  at 
Bonneville  by  Osterman.  Upon  seating  himself  in  front 
of  the  master  of  Los  Muertos  in  the  smoking-car  of  the 
train,  this  latter,  pushing  back  his  hat  and  smoothing  his 
bald  head,  observed: 

"  Governor,  you  look  all  frazeled  out.  Anything 
wrong  these  days  ?  " 

The  other  answered  in  the  negative,  but,  for  all  that, 
Osterman  was  right.  The  Governor  had  aged  suddenly. 
His  former  erectness  was  gone,  the  broad  shoulders 
stooped  a  little,  the  strong  lines  of  his  thin-lipped  mouth 
were  relaxed,  and  his  hand,  as  it  clasped  over  the  yel- 
lowed ivory  knob  of  his  cane,  had  an  unwonted  tremu- 
lousness  not  hitherto  noticeable.  But  the  change  in 
Magnus  was  more  than  physical.  At  last,  in  the  full  tide 
of  power,  President  of  the  League,  known  and  talked  of 
in  every  county  of  the  State,  leader  in  a  great  struggle, 
consulted,  deferred  to  as  the  "  Prominent  Man,"  at  length 
attaining  that  position,  so  long  and  vainly  sought  for,  he 
yet  found  no  pleasure  in  his  triumph,  and  little  but  bit- 
terness in  life.  His  success  had  come  by  devious  methc 
ods,  had  been  reached  by  obscure  means. 

He  was  a  briber.     He  could  never  forget  that.     To 


A  Story  of  California  399 

further  his  ends,  disinterested,  public-spirited,  even  phil- 
anthropic as  those  were,  he  had  connived  with  knavery, 
he,  the  politician  of  the  old  school,  of  such  rigorous  in- 
tegrity, who  had  abandoned  a  ''career  "  rather  than  com- 
promise with  honesty.  At  this  eleventh  hour,  involved 
and  entrapped  in  the  fine-spun  web  of  a  new  order  of 
things,  bewildered  by  Osterman's  dexterity,  by  his  volu- 
bility and  glibness,  goaded  and  harassed  beyond  the  point 
of  reason  by  the  aggression  of  the  Trust  he  fought,  he 
had  at  last  failed.  He  had  fallen ;  he  had  given  a  bribe. 
He  had  thought  that,  after  all,  this  would  make  but  little 
difference  with  him.  The  affair  was  known  only  to 
Osterman,  Broderson,  and  Annixter;  they  would  not 
judge  him,  being  themselves  involved.  He  could  still 
preserve  a  bold  front ;  could  still  hold  his  head  high.  As 
time  went  on  the  affair  would  lose  its  point. 

But  this  was  not  so.  Some  subtle  element  of  his  char- 
acter had  forsaken  him.  He  felt  it.  He  knew  it.  Some 
certain  stiffness  that  had  given  him  all  his  rigidity,  that 
had  lent  force  to  his  authority,  weight  to  his  dominance, 
temper  to  his  fine,  inflexible  hardness,  was  diminishing 
day  by  day.  In  the  decisions  which  he,  as  Presi- 
dent of  the  League,  was  called  upon  to  make  so 
often,  he  now  hesitated.  He  could  no  longer  be  arro- 
gant, masterful,  acting  upon  his  own  judgment,  inde- 
pendent of  opinion.  He  began  to  consult  his  lieutenants, 
asking  their  advice,  distrusting  his  own  opinions.  He 
made  mistakes,  blunders,  and  when  those  were  brought 
to  his  notice,  took  refuge  in  bluster.  He  knew  it  to  be 
bluster — knew  that  sooner  or  later  his  subordinates  would 
recognise  it  as  such.  How  long  could  he  maintain  his 
position  ?  So  only  he  could  keep  his  grip  upon  the  lever 
of  control  till  the  battle  was  over,  all  would  be  well. 
If  not,  he  would  fall,  and,  once  fallen,  he  knew  that  now, 
briber  that  he  was,  he  would  never  rise  again. 


400  The  Octopus 

He  was  on  his  way  at  this  moment  to  the  city  to  con- 
sult with  Lyman  as  to  a  certain  issue  of  the  contest  be- 
tween the  Railroad  and  the  ranchers,  which,  of  late,  had 
been  brought  to  his  notice. 

When  appeal  had  been  taken  to  the  Supreme  Court  by 
the  League's  Executive  Committee,  certain  test  cases  had 
been  chosen,  which  should  represent  all  the  lands  in  ques- 
tion. Neither  Magnus  nor  Annixter  had  so  appealed, 
believing,  of  course,  that  their  cases  were  covered  by  the 
test  cases  on  trial  at  Washington.  Magnus  had  here 
blundered  again,  and  the  League's  agents  in  San  Fran- 
cisco had  written  to  warn  him  that  the  Railroad  might  be 
able  to  take  advantage  of  a  technicality,  and  by  pretend- 
ing that  neither  Quien  Sabe  nor  Los  Muertos  were  in- 
cluded in  the  appeal,  attempt  to  put  its  dummy  buyers 
in  possession  of  the  two  ranches  before  the  Supreme 
Court  handed  down  its  decision.  The  ninety  days  al- 
lowed for  taking  this  appeal  were  nearly  at  an  end  and 
after  then  the  Railroad  could  act.  Osterman  and  Magnus 
at  once  decided  to  go  up  to  the  city,  there  joining  An- 
nixter (who  had  been  absent  from  Quien  Sabe  for  the 
last  ten  days),  and  talk  the  matter  over  with  Lyman. 
Lyman,  because  of  his  position  as  Commissioner,  might 
be  cognisant  of  the  Railroad's  plans,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  could  give  sound  legal  advice  as  to  what  was  to  be 
done  should  the  new  rumour  prove  true. 

"  Say,"  remarked  Osterman,  as  the  train  pulled  out  of 
the  Bonneville  station,  and  the  two  men  settled  them- 
selves for  the  long  journey,  "  say  Governor,  what's  all 
up  with  Buck  Annixter  these  days?  He's  got  a  bean 
about  something,  sure." 

"  I  had  not  noticed,"  answered  Magnus.  "  Mr.  Ann- 
ixter has  been  away  some  time  lately.  I  cannot  imagine 
what  should  keep  him  so  long  in  San  Francisco." 

"  That's   it,"  said  Osterman,   winking.     "  Have  three 


A  Story  of  California  401 

guesses.  Guess  right  and  you  get  a  cigar.  I  guess 
g-i-r-1  spells  Hilma  Tree.  And  a  little  while  ago  she  quit 
Quien  Sabe  and  hiked  out  to  'Frisco.  So  did  Buck.  Do 
I  draw  the  cigar?  It's  up  to  you." 

"  I  have  noticed  her/'  observed  Magnus.  "  A  fine 
figure  of  a  woman.  She  would  make  some  man  a  good 
wife/' 

"  Hoh !  Wife !  Buck  Annixter  marry !  Not  much. 
He's  gone  a-girling  at  last,  old  Buck !  It's  as  funny  as 
twins.  Have  to  josh  him  about  it  when  I  see  him,  sure." 

But  when  Osterman  and  Magnus  at  last  fell  in  with 
Annixter  in  the  vestibule  of  the  Lick  House,  on  Mont- 
gomery Street,  nothing  could  be  got  out  of  him.  He  was 
in  an  execrable  humour.  When  Magnus  had  broached 
the  subject  of  business,  he  had  declared  that  all  business 
could  go  to  pot,  and  when  Osterman,  his  tongue  in  his 
cheek,  had  permitted  himself  a  most  distant  allusion  to  a 
feemale  girl,  Annixter  had  cursed  him  for  a  "  busy- face  " 
so  vociferously  and  tersely,  that  even  Osterman  was 
cowed. 

"  Well,"  insinuated  Osterman,  "  what  are  you  dallying 
'round  'Frisco  so  much  for  ?  " 

"  Cat  fur,  to  make  kitten-breeches,"  retorted  Annixter 
with  oracular  vagueness. 

Two  weeks  before  this  time,  Annixter  had  come  up  to 
the  city  and  had  gone  at  once  to  a  certain  hotel  on  Bush 
Street,  behind  the  First  National  Bank,  that  he  knew  was 
kept  by  a  family  connection  of  the  Trees.  In  his  con- 
jecture that  Hilma  and  her  parents  would  stop  here,  he 
was  right.  Their  names  were  on  the  register.  Ignoring 
custom,  Annixter  marched  straight  up  to  their  rooms, 
and  before  he  was  well  aware  of  it,  was  "  eating  crow  " 
before  old  man  Tree. 

Hilma  and  her  mother  were  out  at  the  time.  Later  on, 
Mrs.  Tree  returned  alone,  leaving  Hilma  to  spend  the 


402  The  Octopus 

day  with  one  of  her  cousins  who  lived  far  out  on  Stanyan 
Street  in  a  little  house  facing  the  park. 

Between  Annixter  and  Hilma's  parents,  a  reconcilia- 
tion had  been  effected,  Annixter  convincing  them  both  of 
his  sincerity  in  wishing  to  make  Hilma  his  wife.  Hilma, 
however,  refused  to  see  him.  As  soon  as  she  knew  he 
had  followed  her  to  San  Francisco  she  had  been  unwilling 
to  return  to  the  hotel  and  had  arranged  with  her  cousin 
to  spend  an  indefinite  time  at  her  house. 

She  was  wretchedly  unhappy  during  all  this  time; 
would  not  set  foot  out  of  doors,  and  cried  herself  to  sleep 
night  after  night.  She  detested  the  city.  Already  she 
was  miserably  homesick  for  the  ranch.  She  remembered 
the  days  she  had  spent  in  the  little  dairy-house,  happy 
in  her  work,  making  butter  and  cheese;  skimming  the 
great  pans  of  milk,  scouring  the  copper  vessels  and  vats, 
plunging  her  arms,  elbow  deep,  into  the  white  curds; 
coming  and  going  in  that  atmosphere  of  freshness,  clean- 
liness, and  sunlight,  gay,  singing,  supremely  happy  just 
because  the  sun  shone.  She  remembered  her  long  walks 
toward  the  Mission  late  in  the  afternoons,  her  excursions 
for  cresses  underneath  the  Long  Trestle,  the  crowing  of 
the  cocks,  the  distant  whistle  of  the  passing  trains,  the 
faint  sounding  of  the  Angelus.  She  recalled  with  in- 
finite longing  the  solitary  expanse  of  the  ranches,  the 
level  reaches  between  the  horizons,  full  of  light  and 
silence  ;  the  heat  at  noon,  the  cloudless  iridescence  of  the 
sunrise  and  sunset.  She  had  been  so  happy  in  that  life ! 
Now,  all  those  days  were  passed.  This  crude,  raw  city, 
with  its  crowding  houses  all  of  wood  and  tin,  its  blotting 
fogs,  its  uproarious  trade  winds,  disturbed  and  saddened 
her.  There  was  no  outlook  for  the  future. 

At  length,  one  day,  about  a  week  after  Annixter's 
arrival  in  the  city,  she  was  prevailed  upon  to  go  for  a 
walk  in  the  park.  She  went  alone,  putting  on  for  the  first 


A  Story  of  California  403 

time  the  little  hat  of  black  straw  with  its  puff  of  white 
silk  her  mother  had  bought  for  her,  a  pink  shirtwaist, 
her  belt  of  imitation  alligator  skin,  her  new  skirt  of 
brown  cloth,  and  her  low  shoes,  set  off  with  their  little 
steel  buckles. 

She  found  a  tiny  summer  house,  built  in  Japanese  fash- 
ion, around  a  diminutive  pond,  and  sat  there  for  a  while, 
her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  amused  with  watching  the 
goldfish,  wishing — she  knew  not  what. 

Without  any  warning,  Annixter  sat  down  beside  her. 
She  was  too  frightened  to  move.  She  looked  at  him  with 
wide  eyes  that  began  to  fill  with  tears. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  oh— I  didn't  know." 

"  Well/'  exclaimed  Annixter,  "  here  you  are  at  last. 
I've  been  watching  that  blamed  house  till  I  was  afraid 
the  policeman  would  move  me  on.  By  the  Lord,"  he 
suddenly  cried,  "  you're  pale.  You — you,  Hilma,  do  you 
feel  well  ?  " 

"  Yes— I  am  well,"  she  faltered. 

"  No,  you're  not,"  he  declared.  "  I  know  better. 
You  are  coming  back  to  Quien  Sabe  with  me.  This  place 
don't  agree  with  you.  Hilma,  what's  all  the  matter? 
Why  haven't  you  let  me  see  you  all  this  time?  Do  you 
know — how  things  are  with  me  ?  Your  mother  told  you, 
didn't  she?  Do  you  know  how  sorry  I  am?  Do  you 
know  that  I  see  now  that  I  made  the  mistake  of  my  life 
there,  that  time,  under  the  Long  Trestle  ?  I  found  it  out 
the  night  after  you  went  away.  I  sat  all  night  on  a  stone 
out  on  the  ranch  somewhere  and  I  don't  know  exactly 
what  happened,  but  I've  been  a  different  man  since  then. 
I  see  things  all  different  now.  Why,  I've  only  begun  to 
live  since  then.  I  know  what  love  means  now,  and  in- 
stead of  being  ashamed  of  it,  I'm  proud  of  it.  If  I  never 
was  to  see  you  again  I  would  be  glad  I'd  lived  through 
that  night,  just  the  same.  I  just  woke  up  that  night 


404  The  Octopus 

I'd  been  absolutely  and  completely  selfish  up  to  the 
moment  I  realised  I  really  loved  you,  and  now,  whether 
you'll  let  me  marry  you  or  not,  I  mean  to  live — I  don't 
know,  in  a  different  way.  I've  got  to  live  different.  I — 
well — oh,  I  can't  make  you  understand,  but  just  loving* 
you  has  changed  my  life  all  around.  It's  made  it  easier 
to  do  the  straight,  clean  thing.  I  want  to  do  it,  it's  fun 
doing  it.  Remember,  once  I  said  I  was  proud  of  being 
a  hard  man,  a  driver,  of  being  glad  that  people  hated  me 
and  were  afraid  of  me?  Well,  since  I've  loved  you  I'm 
ashamed  of  it  all.  I  don't  want  to  be  hard  any  more,  and 
nobody  is  going  to  hate  me  if  I  can  help  it.  I'm  happy 
and  I  want  other  people  so.  I  love  you/'  he  suddenly 
exclaimed ;  "  I  love  you,  and  if  you  will  forgive  me,  and 
if  you  will  come  down  to  such  a  beast  as  I  am,  I  want 
to  be  to  you  the  best  a  man  can  be  to  a  woman,  Hilma. 
Do  you  understand,  little  girl?  I  want  to  be  your  hus- 
band." 

Hilma  looked  at  the  goldfishes  through  her  tears. 

"  Have  you  got  anything  to  say  to  me,  Hilma  ?  "  he 
asked,  after  a  while. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  want  me  to  say,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"  Yes,  you  do,"  he  insisted.  "  I've  followed  you  'way 
up  here  to  hear  it.  I've  waited  around  in  these  beastly, 
draughty  picnic  grounds  for  over  a  week  to  hear  it.  You 
know  what  I  want  to  hear,  Hilma." 

"  Well — I  forgive  you,"  she  hazarded. 

"That  will  do  for  a  starter,"  he  answered.  "But 
that's  not  it." 

"  Then,  I  don't  know  what." 

"Shall  I  say  it  for  you?" 

She  hesitated  a  long  minute,  then: 

"  You  mightn't  say  it  rig-ht,"  she  replied. 

"Trust  me  for  that.    Shall  I  say  it  for  you,  Hilma?* 


A  Story  of  California  405 

"  I  don't  know  what  you'll  say." 

"I'll  say  what  you  are  thinking  of.     Shall  I  say  it?" 

There  was  a  very  long  pause.  A  goldfish  rose  to  the 
surface  of  the  little  pond,  with  a  sharp,  rippling  sound. 
The  fog  drifted  overhead.  There  was  nobody  about. 

"  No,"  said  Hilma,  at  length.  "  I — I — I  can  say  it  for 
myself.  I — "  All  at  once  she  turned  to  him  and  put 
her  arms  around  his  neck.  "  Oh,  do  you  love  me  ?  "  she 
cried.  "  Is  it  really  true  ?  Do  you  mean  every  word  of 
it?  And  you  are  sorry  and  you  will  be  good  to  me  if 
I  will  be  your  wife?  You  will  be  my  dear,  dear  hus- 
band?" 

The  tears  sprang  to  Annixter's  eyes.  He  took  her  in 
his  arms  and  held  her  there  for  a  moment.  Never  in  his 
life  had  he  felt  so  unworthy,  so  undeserving  of  this  clean, 
pure  girl  who  forgave  him  and  trusted  his  spoken  word 
and  believed  him  to  be  the  good  man  he  could  only  wish 
to  be.  She  was  so  far  above  him,  so  exalted,  so  noble 
that  he  should  have  bowed  his  forehead  to  her  feet,  and 
instead,  she  took  him  in  her  arms,  believing  him  to  be 
good,  to  be  her  equal.  He  could  think  of  no  words  to 
say.  The  tears  overflowed  his  eyes  and  ran  down  upon 
his  cheeks.  She  drew  away  from  him  and  held  him  a 
second  at  arm's  length,  looking  at  him,  and  he  saw  that 
she,  too,  had  been  crying. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  we  are  a  couple  of  softies." 

"  No,  no,"  she  insisted.  "  I  want  to  cry  and  want  you 
to  cry,  too.  Oh,  dear,  I  haven't  a  handkerchief." 

"  Here,  take  mine." 

They  wiped  each  other's  eyes  like  two  children  and 
for  a  long  time  sat  in  the  deserted  little  Japanese  pleas- 
ure house,  their  arms  about  each  other,  talking,  talking, 
talking. 

On  the  following  Saturday  they  were  married  in  an 
uptown  Presbyterian  church,  and  spent  the  week  of  their 


406  The  Octopus 

honeymoon  at  a  small,  family  hotel  on  Sutter  Street.  As 
a  matter  of  course,  they  saw  the  sights  of  the  city  to- 
gether. They  made  the  inevitable  bridal  trip  to  the  Cliff 
House  and  spent  an  afternoon  in  the  grewsome  and 
made-to-order  beauties  of  Sutro's  Gardens;  they  went 
through  Chinatown,  the  Palace  Hotel,  the  park  museum — 
where  Hilma  resolutely  refused  to  believe  in  the  Egyp- 
tian mummy — and  they  drove  out  in  a  hired  hack  to  the 
Presidio  and  the  Golden  Gate. 

On  the  sixth  day  of  their  excursions,  Hilma  abruptly 
declared  they  had  had  enough  of  "  playing  out,"  and  must 
be  serious  and  get  to  work. 

This  work  was  nothing  less  than  the  buying  of  the 
furniture  and  appointments  for  the  rejuvenated  ranch 
house  at  Quien  Sabe,  where  they  were  to  live.  Annixter 
had  telegraphed  to  his  overseer  to  have  the  building  re- 
painted, replastered,  and  reshingled  and  to  empty  the 
rooms  of  everything  but  the  telephone  and  safe.  He  also 
sent  instructions  to  have  the  dimensions  of  each  room 
noted  down  and  the  result  forwarded  to  him.  It  was  the 
arrival  of  these  memoranda  that  had  roused  Hilma  to 
action. 

Then  ensued  a  most  delicious  week.  Armed  with 
formidable  lists,  written  by  Annixter  on  hotel  envelopes, 
they  two  descended  upon  the  department  stores  of  the 
city,  the  carpet  stores,  the  furniture  stores.  Right  and 
left  they  bought  and  bargained,  sending  each  consign- 
ment as  soon  as  purchased  to  Quien  Sabe.  Nearly  an 
entire  car  load  of  carpets,  curtains,  kitchen  furniture, 
pictures,  fixtures,  lamps,  straw  matting,  chairs,  and  the 
like  were  sent  down  to  the  ranch,  Annixter  making  a 
point  that  their  new  home  should  be  entirely  equipped  by 
San  Francisco  dealers. 

The  furnishings  of  the  bedroom  and  sitting-room  were 
left  to  the  very  last.  For  the  former,  Hilma  bought  a 


A  Story  of  California  407 

"set"  of  pure  white  enamel,  three  chairs,  a  washstand 
and  bureau,  a  marvellous  bargain  of  thirty  dollars,  dis- 
covered by  wonderful  accident  at  a  "  Friday  Sale."  The 
bed  was  a  piece  by  itself,  bought  elsewhere,  but  none  the 
less  a  wonder.  It  was  of  brass,  very  brave  and  gay,  and 
actually  boasted  a  canopy!  They  bought  it  complete, 
just  as  it  stood  in  the  window  of  the  department  store, 
and  Hilma  was  in  an  ecstasy  over  its  crisp,  clean,  muslin 
curtains,  spread,  and  shams.  Never  was  there  such  a  bed, 
the  luxury  of  a  princess,  such  a  bed  as  she  had  dreamed 
about  her  whole  life. 

Next  the  appointments  of  the  sitting-room  occupied 
her — since  Annixter,  himself,  bewildered  by  this  aston- 
ishing display,  unable  to  offer  a  single  suggestion  him- 
self, merely  approved  of  all  she  bought.  In  the  sitting- 
room  was  to  be  a  beautiful  blue  and  white  paper,  cool 
straw  matting,  set  off  with  white  wool  rugs,  a  stand  of 
flowers  in  the  window,  a  globe  of  goldfish,  rocking  chairs, 
a  sewing  machine,  and  a  great,  round  centre  table  of 
yellow  oak  whereon  should  stand  a  lamp  covered  with  a 
deep  shade  of  crinkly  red  tissue  paper.  On  the  walls 
were  to  hang  several  pictures — lovely  affairs,  photo- 
graphs from  life,  all  properly  tinted — of  choir  boys  in 
robes,  with  beautiful  eyes;  pensive  young  girls  in  pink 
gowns,  with  flowing  yellow  hair,  drooping  over  golden 
harps ;  a  coloured  reproduction  of  "  Ronget  de  Lisle, 
Singing  the  Marseillaise,"  and  two  "  pieces "  of  wood 
carving,  representing  a  quail  and  a  wild  duck,  hung  by 
one  leg  in  the  midst  of  game  bags  and  powder  horns, — • 
quite  masterpieces,  both. 

At  last  everything  had  been  bought,  all  arrangements 
made,  Hilma's  trunks  packed  with  her  new  dresses,  and 
the  tickets  to  Bonneville  bought. 

"  We'll  go  bv  the  Overland,  by  Jingo,"  declared  Ann- 
ixter across  the  table  to  his  wife,  at  their  last  meal  in 


408  The  Octopus 

the  hotel  where  they  had  been  stopping ;  "  no  way  trains 
or  locals  for  us,  hey  ?  " 

"  But  we  reach  Bonneville  at  such  an  hour,"  protested 
Hilma.  "  Five  in  the  morning !  " 

"  Never  mind,"  he  declared,  "  we'll  go  home  in  Pull- 
man's,  Hilma.  I'm  not  going  to  have  any  of  those  slobs 
in  Bonneville  say  I  didn't  know  how  to  do  the  thing  in 
style,  and  we'll  have  Vacca  meet  us  with  the  team.  No, 
sir,  it  is  Pullman's  or  nothing.  When  it  comes  to  buy- 
ing furniture,  I  don't  shine,  perhaps,  but  I  know  what's 
due  my  wife." 

He  was  obdurate,  and  late  one  afternoon  the  couple 
boarded  the  Transcontinental  (the  crack  Overland  Flyer 
of  the  Pacific  and  Southwestern)  at  the  Oakland  mole. 
Only  Hilma's  parents  were  there  to  say  good-bye.  Ann- 
ixter  knew  that  Magnus  and  Osterman  were  in  the  city, 
but  he  had  laid  his  plans  to  elude  them.  Magnus,  he 
could  trust  to  be  dignified,  but  that  goat  Osterman,  one 
could  never  tell  what  he  would  do  next.  He  did  not 
propose  to  start  his  journey  home  in  a  shower  of  rice. 

Annixter  marched  down  the  line  of  cars,  his  hands 
encumbered  with  wicker  telescope  baskets,  satchels,  and 
valises,  his  tickets  in  his  mouth,  his  hat  on  wrong  side 
foremost,  Hilma  and  her  parents  hurrying  on  behind  him, 
trying  to  keep  up.  Annixter  was  in  a  turmoil  of  nerves 
lest  something  should  go  wrong;  catching  a  train  was 
always  for  him  a  little  crisis.  He  rushed  ahead  so  furi- 
ously that  when  he  had  found  his  Pullman  he  had  lost 
his  party.  He  set  down  his  valises  to  mark  the  place 
and  charged  back  along  the  platform,  waving  his  arms. 

"  Come  on,"  he  cried,  when,  at  length,  he  espied  the 
others.  "  We've  no  more  time." 

He  shouldered  and  urged  them  forward  to  where  he 
had  set  his  valises,  only  to  find  one  of  them  gone.  In- 
stantly he  raised  an  outcry.  Aha,  a  fine  way  to  treat 


A  Story  of  California  409 

passengers!  There  was  P.  and  S.  W.  management  for 
you.  He  would,  by  the  Lord,  he  would — but  the  porter 
appeared  in  the  vestibule  of  the  car  to  placate  him.  He 
had  already  taken  his  valises  inside. 

Annixter  would  not  permit  Hilma's  parents  to  board 
the  car,  declaring  that  the  train  might  pull  out  any  mo- 
ment. So  he  and  his  wife,  following  the  porter  down 
the  narrow  passage  by  the  stateroom,  took  their  places 
and,  raising  the  window,  leaned  out  to  say  good-bye  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tree.  These  latter  would  not  return  to 
Quien  Sabe.  Old  man  Tree  had  found  a  business  chance 
awaiting  him  in  the  matter  of  supplying  his  relative's 
hotel  with  dairy  products.  But  Bonneville  was  not  too 
far  from  San  Francisco ;  the  separation  was  by  no  means 
final. 

The  porters  began  taking  up  the  steps  that  stood  by 
the  vestibule  of  each  sleeping-car. 

"  Well,  have  a  good  time,  daughter,"  observed  her 
father ;  "  and  come  up  to  see  us  whenever  you  can/' 

From  beyond  the  enclosure  of  the  depot's  reverberating 
roof  came  the  measured  clang  of  a  bell. 

"  I  guess  we're  off,"  cried  Annixter.  "  Good-bye,  Mrs. 
Tree." 

"  Remember  your  promise,  Hilma,"  her  mother  has- 
tened to  exclaim,  "  to  write  every  Sunday  afternoon." 

There  came  a  prolonged  creaking  and  groan  of  strain- 
ing wood  and  iron  work,  all  along  the  length  of  the 
train.  They  all  began  to  cry  their  good-byes  at  once. 
The  train  stirred,  moved  forward,  and  gathering  slow 
headway,  rolled  slowly  out  into  the  sunlight.  Hilma 
leaned  out  of  the  window  and  as  long  as  she  could  keep 
her  mother  in  sight  waved  her  handkerchief.  Then  at 
length  she  sat  back  in  her  seat  and  looked  at  her  hus- 
band. 

"  Well,"  she  said. 


4 io  The  Octopus 

"  Well/'  echoed  Annixter,  "  happy?  "  for  the  tears  rose 
in  her  eyes. 

She  nodded  energetically,  smiling"  at  him  bravely. 

"  You  look  a  little  pale/'  he  declared,  frowning  un- 
easily; "feel  well?" 

"  Pretty  well." 

Promptly  he  was  seized  with  uneasiness. 

"  But  not  all  well,  hey?     Is  that  it?  " 

It  was  true  that  Hilma  had  felt  a  faint  tremour  of  sea- 
sickness on  the  ferry-boat  coming  from  the  city  to  the 
Oakland  mole-  No  doubt  a  little  nausea  yet  remained 
with  her.  But  Annixter  refused  to  accept  this  explana- 
tion. He  was  distressed  beyond  expression. 

"Now  you're  going  to  be  sick,"  he  cried  anxiously. 

"  No,  no/'  she  protested,  "  not  a  bit." 

"  But  you  said  you  didn't  feel  very  well.  Where  is  it 
you  feel  sick  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  not  sick.  Oh,  dear  me,  why  will 
vou  bother  ?  " 

"Headache?" 

"  Not  the  least." 

"  You  feel  tired,  then.  That's  it.  No  wonder,  the  way 
I'v<j  rushed  you  'round  to-day." 

"  Dear,  I'm  not  tired,  and  I'm  not  sick,  and  I'm  all 
right." 

"  No,  no ;  I  can  tell.  I  think  we'd  best  have  the  berth 
made  up  and  you  He  down." 

"  That  would  be  perfectly  ridiculous." 

"  Well,  where  is  it  you  feel  sick  ?  Show  me ;  put  your 
hand  on  the  place.  Want  to  eat  something  ?  " 

With  elaborate  minuteness,  he  cross-questioned  her,  re- 
fusing to  let  the  subject  drop,  protesting  that  she  had 
dark  circles  under  her  eyes ;  that  she  had  grown  thinner. 

"  Wonder  if  there's  a  doctor  on  board,"  he  murmured, 
looking  uncertainly  about  the  car.  "Let  me  see  your 


A  Story  of  California  411 

tongue.  I  know — a  little  whiskey  is  what  you  want,  that 
and  some  pru '' 

"  No,  no,  no,"  she  exclaimed.  "  I'm  as  well  as  I  ever 
was  in  all  my  life.  Look  at  me.  Now,  tell  me,  do  I  look 
like  a  sick  lady?  " 

He  scrutinized  her  face  distressfully. 

"  Now,  don't  I  look  the  picture  of  health  ?  "  she  chal- 
lenged. 

"  In  a  way  you  do,"  he  began,  "  and  then  again 

Hilma  beat  a  tattoo  with  her  heels  upon  the  floor,  shut- 
ting her  fists,  the  thumbs  tucked  inside.  She  closed  her 
eyes,  shaking  her  head  energetically. 

"  I  won't  listen,  I  won't  listen,  I  won't  listen,"  she 
cried. 

"  But,  just  the  same — 

'•  Gibble— Gibble— Gibble,"  she  mocked.  "I  won't 
listen,  I  won't  listen."  She  put  a  hand  over  his  mouth. 
'*  Look,  here's  the  dining-car  waiter,  and  the  first  call  for 
supper,  and  your  wife  is  hungry." 

They  went  forward  and  had  supper  in  the  diner,  while 
the  long  train,  now  out  upon  the  main  line,  settled  itself 
to  its  pace,  the  prolonged,  even  gallop  that  it  would  hold 
for  the  better  part  of  the  week,  spinning  out  the  miles 
as  a  cotton  spinner  spins  thread. 

It  was  already  dark  when  Antioch  was  left  behind. 
Abruptly  the  sunset  appeared  to  wheel  in  the  sky  and 
readjusted  itself  to  the  right  of  the  track  behind  Mount 
Diablo,  here  visible  almost  to  its  base.  The  train  had 
turned  southward.  Neroly  was  passed,  then  Brentwood, 
then  Byron.  In  the  gathering  dusk,  mountains  began  to 
build  themselves  up  on  either  hand,  far  off,  blocking  the 
horizon.  The  train  shot  forward,  roaring.  Between  the 
mountains  the  land  lay  level,  cut  up  into  farms,  ranches. 
These  continually  grew  larger;  growing  wheat  began  to 
appear,  billowing  in  the  wind  of  the  train's  passage.  The 


412  The  Octopus 

mountains  grew  higher,  the  land  richer,  and  hy  the  time 
the  moon  rose,  the  train  was  well  into  the  northernmost 
limits  of  the  valley  of  the  San  Joaquin. 

Annixter  had  engaged  an  entire  section,  and  after  he 
and  his  wife  went  to  bed  had  the  porter  close  the  upper 
berth.  Hilma  sat  up  in  bed  to  say  her  prayers,  both 
hands  over  her  face,  and  then  kissing  Annixter  good- 
night, went  to  sleep  with  the  directness  of  a  little  child, 
holding  his  hand  in  both  her  own. 

Annixter,  who  never  could  sleep  on  the  train,  dozed 
and  tossed  and  fretted  for  hours,  consulting  his  watch 
and  time-table  whenever  there  was  a  stop ;  twice  he  rose 
to  get  a  drink  of  ice  water,  and  between  whiles  was  for- 
ever sitting  up  in  the  narrow  berth,  stretching  himself 
and  yawning,  murmuring  with  uncertain  relevance: 

"Oh,  Lord!    Oh-h-h  Lord!" 

There  were  some  dozen  other  passengers  in  the  car — • 
a  lady  with  three  children,  a  group  of  school-teachers,  a 
couple  of  drummers,  a  stout  gentleman  with  whiskers, 
and  a  well-dressed  young  man  in  a  plaid  travelling  cap, 
whom  Annixter  had  observed  before  supper  time  read- 
ing Daudet's  "  Tartarin  "  in  the  French. 

But  by  nine  o'clock,  all  these  people  were  in  their 
berths.  Occasionally,  above  the  rhythmic  rumble  of  the 
wheels,  Annixter  could  hear  one  of  the  lady's  children 
fidgeting  and  complaining.  The  stout  gentleman  snored 
monotonously  in  two  notes,  one  a  rasping  bass,  the  other 
a  prolonged  treble.  At  intervals,  a  brakeman  or  the  pas- 
senger conductor  pushed  down  the  aisle,  between  the 
curtains,  his  red  and  white  lamp  over  his  arm.  Looking 
out  into  the  car  Annixter  saw  in  an  end  section  where 
the  berths  had  not  been  made  up,  the  porter,  in  his  white 
duck  coat,  dozing,  his  mouth  wide  open,  his  head  on  his 
shoulder. 

The  hours  passed.     Midnight  came  and  went.    An- 


A  Story  of  California  413 

nixter,  checking  off  the  stations,  noted  their  passage  of 
Modesto,  Merced,  and  Madeira.  Then,  after  another 
broken  nap,  he  lost  count.  He  wondered  where  they 
were.  Had  they  reached  Fresno  yet?  Raising  the  win- 
dow curtain,  he  made  a  shade  with  both  hands  on  either 
side  of  his  face  and  looked  out.  The  night  was  thick, 
dark,  clouded  over.  A  fine  rain  was  falling,  leaving 
horizontal  streaks  on  the  glass  of  the  outside  window. 
Only  the  faintest  grey  blur  indicated  the  sky.  Every- 
thing else  was  impenetrable  blackness. 

"  I  think  sure  we  must  have  passed  Fresno,"  he  mut- 
tered. He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  about  half-past 
three.  "If  we  have  passed  Fresno,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  I'd  better  wake  the  little  girl  pretty  soon.  She'll  need 
about  an  hour  to  dress.  Better  find  out  for  sure." 

He  drew  on  his  trousers  and  shoes,  got  into  his  coat, 
and  stepped  out  into  the  aisle.  In  the  seat  that  had  been 
occupied  by  the  porter,  the  Pullman  conductor,  his  cash 
box  and  car-schedules  before  him,  was  checking  up  his 
berths,  a  blue  pencil  behind  his  ear. 

"  What's  the  next  stop,  Captain  ?  "  inquired  Annixter, 
coming  up.  "  Have  we  reached  Fresno  yet  ?  " 

"  Just  passed  it,"  the  other  responded,  looking  at  An- 
nixter  over  his  spectacles. 

"What's  the  next  stop?" 

"  Goshen.  We  will  be  there  in  about  forty-five  min- 
utes." 

"Fair  black  night,  isn't  it?" 

"  Black  as  a  pocket.  Let's  see,  you're  the  party  in 
upper  and  lower  9." 

Annixter  caught  at  the  back  of  the  nearest  seat,  just 
in  time  to  prevent  a  fall,  and  the  conductor's  cash  box 
was  shunted  off  the  surface  of  the  plush  seat  and  came 
clanking  to  the  floor.  The  Pintsch  lights  overhead  vi- 
brated with  blinding  rapidity  in  the  long,  sliding  jar  that 


414  The  Octopus 

ran  through  the  train  from  end  to  end,  and  the  momen- 
tum of  its  speed  suddenly  decreasing,  all  but  pitched  the 
conductor  from  his  seat.  A  hideous  ear-splitting  rasp 
made  itself  heard  from  the  clamped-down  Westinghouse 
gear  underneath,  and  Annixter  knew  that  the  wheels  had 
ceased  to  revolve  and  that  the  train  was  sliding  forward 
upon  the  motionless  flanges. 

"Hello,  hello/'  he  exclaimed,  "what's  all  up  now?" 

"Emergency  brakes,"  declared  the  conductor,  catch- 
ing up  his  cash  box  and  thrusting  his  papers  and  tickets 
into  it.  "  Nothing  much ;  probably  a  cow  on  the  track." 

He  disappeared,  carrying  his  lantern  with  him. 

But  the  other  passengers,  all  but  the  stout  gentleman, 
were  awake ;  heads  were  thrust  from  out  the  curtains,  and 
Annixter,  hurrying  back  to  Hilma,  was  assailed  by  all 
manner  of  questions. 

"What  was  that?" 

"  Anything  wrong?  " 

"  What's  up,  anyways  ?  " 

Hilma  was  just  waking  as  Annixter  pushed  the  cur- 
tain aside. 

"  Oh,  I  was  so  frightened.  What's  the  matter,  dear?  " 
she  exclaimed. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "  Only  the  emergency 
brakes.  Just  a  cow  on  the  track,  I  guess.  Don't  get 
scared.  It  isn't  anything." 

But  with  a  final  shriek  of  the  Westinghouse  appliance, 
the  train  came  to  a  definite  halt. 

At  once  the  silence  was  absolute.  The  ears,  still  numb 
with  the  long-continued  roar  of  wheels  and  clashing  iron, 
at  first  refused  to  register  correctly  the  smaller  noises 
of  the  surroundings.  Voices  came  from  the  other  end 
of  the  car,  strange  and  unfamiliar,  as  though  heard  at  a 
great  distance  across  the  water.  The  stillness  of  the 
night  outside  was  so  profound  that  the  rain,  dripping 


A  Story  of  California  415 

from  the  car  roof  upon  the  road-bed  underneath,  was  as 
distinct  as  the  ticking  of  a  clock. 

"  Well,  we've  sure  stopped,"  observed  one  of  the  drum- 
mers. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Hilma  again.  "Are  you  sure 
there's  nothing  wrong  ?  " 

"  Sure,"  said  Annixter. 

Outside,  underneath  their  window,  they  heard  the 
sound  of  hurried  footsteps  crushing  into  the  clinkers  by 
the  side  of  the  ties.  They  passed  on,  and  Annixter  heard 
some  one  in  the  distance  shout : 

"  Yes,  on  the  other  side." 

Then  the  door  at  the  end  of  their  car  opened  and  a 
brakeman  with  a  red  beard  ran  down  the  aisle  and  out 
upon  the  platform  in  front.  The  forward  door  closed. 
Everything  was  quiet  again.  In  the  stillness  the  fat  gen- 
tleman's snores  made  themselves  heard  once  more. 

The  minutes  passed ;  nothing  stirred.  There  was  no 
sound  but  the  dripping  rain.  The  line  of  cars  lay  im- 
mobilised and  inert  under  the  night.  One  of  the  drum- 
mers, having  stepped  outside  on  the  platform  for  a  look 
around,  returned,  saying: 

"  There  sure  isn't  any  station  anywheres  about  and  no 
siding.  Bet  you  they  have  had  an  accident  of  some 
kind." 

"  Ask  the  porter." 

"  I  did.    He  don't  know." 

"  Maybe  they  stopped  to  take  on  wood  or  water,  or 
something." 

"  Well,  they  wouldn't  use  the  emergency  brakes  for 
that,  would  they?  Why,  this  train  stopped  almost  in 
her  own  length.  Pretty  near  slung  me  out  the  berth. 
Those  were  the  emergency  brakes.  I  heard  some  one 
say  so." 

From  far  out  towards  the  front  of  the  train,  near  the 


4i 6  The  Octopus 

locomotive,  came  the  sharp,  incisive  report  of  a  revolver ; 
then  two  more  almost  simultaneously;  then,  after  a  long? 
interval,  a  fourth. 

"  Say,  that's  shooting.  By  God,  boys,  they're  shooting1. 
Say,  this  is  a  hold-up." 

Instantly  a  white-hot  excitement  flared  from  end  to  end 
of  the  car.  Incredibly  sinister,  heard  thus  in  the  night, 
and  in.  the  rain,  mysterious,  fearful,  those  four  pistol 
shots  started  confusion  from  out  the  sense  of  security 
like  a  frightened  rabbit  hunted  from  her  burrow.  Wide- 
eyed,  the  passengers  of  the  car  looked  into  each  other's 
faces.  It  had  come  to  them  at  last,  this,  they  had  so 
often  read  about.  Now  they  were  to  see  the  real  thing, 
now  they  were  to  face  actuality,  face  this  danger  of  the 
night,  leaping  in  from  out  the  blackness  of  the  roadside, 
masked,  armed,  ready  to  kill.  They  were  facing  it  now. 
They  were  held  up. 

Hilma  said  nothing,  only  catching  Annixter's  hand, 
looking  squarely  into  his  eyes. 

"  Steady,  little  girl,"  he  said.  "  They  can't  hurt  you. 
I  won't  leave  you.  By  the  Lord,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed, 
his  excitement  getting  the  better  of  him  for  a  moment. 
"  By  the  Lord,  it's  a  hold-up." 

;  The  school-teachers  were  in  the  aisle  of  the  car,  in 
night  gown,  wrapper,  and  dressing  sack,  huddled  together 
like  sheep,  holding  on  to  each  other,  looking  to  the  men, 
silently  appealing  for  protection.  Two  of  them  were 
weeping,  white  to  the  lips. 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh,  it's  terrible.  Oh,  if  they  only  won't  hurt 
me." 

But  the  lady  with  the  children  looked  out  from  her 
berth,  smiled  reassuringly,  and  said: 

"  I'm  not  a  bit  frightened.  They  won't  do  anything  to 
us  if  we  keep  quiet.  I've  my  watch  and  jewelry  all  ready 
for  them  in  my  little  black  bag,  see  ?  " 


A  Story  of  California  417 

She  exhibited  it  to  the  passengers.  Her  children  were 
all  awake.  They  were  quiet,  looking  about  them  with 
eager  faces,  interested  and  amused  at  this  surprise.  In 
his  berth,  the  fat  gentleman  with  whiskers  snored  pro- 
foundly. 

"  Say,  I'm  going  out  there,"  suddenly  declared  one  of 
the  drummers,  flourishing  a  pocket  revolver. 

His  friend  caught  his  arm. 

"  Don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself,  Max,"  he  said. 

"  They  won't  come  near  us,"  observed  the  well-dressed 
young  man ;  "  they  are  after  the  Wells-Fargo  box  and  the 
registered  mail.  You  won't  do  any  good  out  there." 

But  the  other  loudly  protested.  No ;  he  was  going  out. 
He  didn't  propose  to  be  buncoed  without  a  fight.  He 
wasn't  any  coward. 

"  Well,  you  don't  go,  that's  all,"  said  his  friend,  an- 
grily. "  There's  women  and  children  in  this  car.  You 
ain't  going  to  draw  the  fire  here." 

"  Well,  that's  to  be  thought  of,"  said  the  other,  allow- 
ing himself  to  be  pacified,  but  still  holding  his  pistol. 

"  Don't  let  him  open  that  window,"  cried  Annixter 
sharply  from  his  place  by  Hilma's  side,  for  the  drummer 
had  made  as  if  to  open  the  sash  in  one  of  the  sections 
that  had  not  been  made  up. 

"  Sure,  that's  right,"  said  the  others.  "  Don't  open  any 
windows.  Keep  your  head  in.  You'll  get  us  all  shot  if 
you  aren't  careful." 

However,  the  drummer  had  got  the  window  up  and 
had  leaned  out  before  the  others  could  interfere  and 
draw  him  away. 

"  Say,  by  Jove,"  he  shouted,  as  he  turned  back  to  the 
car,  "  our  engine's  gone.  We're  standing  on  a  curve  and 
you  can  see  the  end  of  the  train.  She's  gone,  I  tell  you. 
Well,  look  for  yourself." 

In  spite  of  their  precautions,  one  after  another,  his 

27 


4i 8  The  Octopus 

friends  looked  out.  Sure  enough,  the  train  was  without 
a  locomotive. 

"  They've  done  it  so  we  can't  get  away,"  vociferated 
the  drummer  with  the  pistol.  "  Now,  by  jiminy-Christ- 
mas,  they'll  come  through  the  cars  and  stand  us  up. 
They'll  be  in  here  in  a  minute.  Lord!  What  was 
that?" 

From  far  away  up  the  track,  apparently  some  half- 
mile  ahead  of  the  train,  came  the  sound  of  a  heavy  ex- 
plosion. The  windows  of  the  car  vibrated  with  it. 

"  Shooting  again." 

"  That  isn't  shooting,"  exclaimed  Annixter.  "  They've 
pulled  the  express  and  mail  car  on  ahead  with  the  engine 
and  now  they  are  dynamiting  her  open." 

"That  must  be  it.  Yes,  sure,  that's  just  what  they 
are  doing." 

The  forward  door  of  the  car  opened  and  closed  and 
the  school-teachers  shrieked  and  cowered,  The  drummer 
with  the  revolver  faced  about,  his  eyes  bulging.  How- 
ever, it  was  only  the  train  conductor,  hatless,  his  lantern 
in  his  hand.  He  was  soaked  with  rain.  He  appeared  in 
the  aisle. 

"  Is  there  a  doctor  in  this  car  ?  "  he  asked. 

Promptly  the  passengers  surrounded  him,  voluble  with 
questions.  But  he  was  in  a  bad  temper. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  more  than  you,"  he  shouted 
angrily.  "  It  was  a  hold-up.  I  guess  you  know  that, 
don't  you?  Well,  what  more  do  you  want  to  know?  I 
ain't  got  time  to  fool  around.  They  cut  off  our  express 
car  and  have  cracked  it  open,  and  they  shot  one  of  our 
train  crew,  that's  all,  and  I  want  a  doctor." 

"  Did  they  shoot  him — kill  him,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Is  he  hurt  bad?" 

"  Did  the  men  get  away  ?  " 

"  Oh,  shut  up,  will  you  all  ?  "  exclaimed  the  conductor. 


A  Story  of  California  419 

"  What  do  I  know  ?  Is  there  a  doctor  in  this  car,  that's 
what  I  want  to  know  ?  " 

The  well-dressed  young  man  stepped  forward. 

"I'm  a  doctor/'  he  said. 

"  Well,  come  along  then,"  returned  the  conductor,  in  a 
6i\rly  voice,  "  and  the  passengers  in  this  car,"  he  added, 
turning  back  at  the  door  and  nodding  his  head  menac- 
ingly, "  will  go  back  to  bed  and  stay  there.  It's  all  over 
and  there's  nothing  to  see." 

He  went  out,  followed  by  the  young  doctor. 

Then  ensued  an  interminable  period  of  silence.  The 
entire  train  seemed  deserted.  Helpless,  bereft  of  its  en- 
gine, a  huge,  decapitated  monster  it  lay,  half-way  around 
a  curve,  rained  upon,  abandoned. 

There  was  more  fear  in  this  last  condition  of  af- 
fairs, more  terror  in  the  idea  of  this  prolonged  line  of 
sleepers,  with  their  nickelled  fittings,  their  plate  glass, 
their  upholstery,  vestibules,  and  the  like,  loaded  down 
with  people,  lost  and  forgotten  in  the  night  and  the 
rain,  than  there  had  been  when  the  actual  danger 
threatened. 

What  was  to  become  of  them  now?  Who  was  there 
to  help  them?  Their  engine  was  gone;  they  were  help- 
less. What  next  was  to  happen  ? 

Nobody  came  near  the  car.  Even  the  porter  had  dis- 
appeared. The  wait  seemed  endless,  and  the  persistent 
snoring  of  the  whiskered  gentleman  rasped  the  nerves 
like  the  scrape  of  a  file. 

"  Well,  how  long  are  we  going  to  stick  here  now  ?  " 
began  one  of  the  drummers.  "  Wonder  if  they  hurt  the 
engine  with  their  dynamite  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  they  will  come  through  the  car  and  rob 
us,"  wailed  the  school-teachers. 

The  lady  with  the  little  children  went  back  to  bed,  and 
Annixter,  assured  that  the  trouble  was  over,  did  likewise. 


420  The  Octopus 

But  nobody  slept.  From  berth  to  berth  came  the  sound 
of  suppressed  voices  talking  it  all  over,  formulating  con- 
jectures. Certain  points  seemed  to  be  settled  upon,  no 
one  knew  how,  as  indisputable.  The  highwaymen  had 
been  four  in  number  and  had  stopped  the  train  by  pull- 
ing the  bell  cord.  A  brakeman  had  attempted  to  inter- 
fere and  had  been  shot.  The  robbers  had  been  on  the 
train  all  the  way  from  San  Francisco.  The  drummer 
named  Max  remembered  to  have  seen  four  "  suspicious- 
looking  characters  "  in  the  smoking-car  at  Lathrop,  and 
had  intended  to  speak  to  the  conductor  about  them. 
This  drummer  had  been  in  a  hold-up  before,  and  told  the 
story  of  it  over  and  over  again. 

At  last,  after  what  seemed  to  have  been  an  hour's  de- 
lay, and  when  the  dawn  had  already  begun  to  show  in 
the  east,  the  locomotive  backed  on  to  the  train  again 
with  a  reverberating  jar  that  ran  from  car  to  car.  At  the 
jolting,  the  school-teachers  screamed  in  chorus,  and  the 
whiskered  gentleman  stopped  snoring  and  thrust  his 
head  from  his  curtains,  blinking  at  the  Pintsch  lights.  It 
appeared  that  he  was  an  Englishman. 

"  I  say,"  he  asked  of  the  drummer  named  Max,  "  I 
say,  my  friend,  what  place  is  this  ?  " 

The  others  roared  with  derision. 

".We  were  held  up,  sir,  that's  what  we  were.  We  were 
held  up  and  you  slept  through  it  all.  You  missed  the 
show  of  your  life." 

The  gentleman  fixed  the  group  with  a  prolonged  gaze. 
He  said  never  a  word,  but  little  by  little  he  was  con- 
vinced that  the  drummers  told  the  truth.  All  at  once  he 
grew  wrathful,  his  face  purpling.  He  withdrew  his  head 
angrily,  buttoning  his  curtains  together  in  a  fury.  The 
cause  of  his  rage  was  inexplicable,  but  they  could  hear 
him  resettling  himself  upon  his  pillows  with  exasperated 
movements  of  his  head  and  shoulders.  In  a  few  mo- 


A  Story  of  California  421 

ments  the  deep  bass  and  shrill  treble  of  his  snoring  once 
more  sounded  through  the  car. 

At  last  the  train  got  under  way  again,  with  useless 
warning  blasts  of  the  engine's  whistle.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments it  was  tearing  away  through  the  dawn  at  a  won- 
derful speed,  rocking  around  curves,  roaring  across  cul- 
verts, making  up  time. 

And  all  the  rest  of  that  strange  night  the  passengers, 
sitting  up  in  their  unmade  beds,  in  the  swaying  car, 
lighted  by  a  strange  mingling  of  pallid  dawn  and 
trembling  Pintsch  lights,  rushing  at  break-neck  speed 
through  the  misty  rain,  were  oppressed  by  a  vision  of 
figures  of  terror,  far  behind  them  in  the  night  they  had 
left,  masked,  armed,  galloping  toward  the  mountains, 
pistol  in  hand,  the  booty  bound  to  the  saddle  bow,  gallop- 
ing, galloping  on,  sending  a  thrill  of  fear  through  all 
the  country  side. 

The  young  doctor  returned.  He  sat  down  in  the 
smoking-room,  lighting  a  cigarette,  and  Annixter  and 
the  drummers  pressed  around  him  to  know  the  story  of 
the  whole  affair. 

"  The  man  is  dead,"  he  declared ;  "  the  brakeman.  He 
was  shot  through  the  lungs  twice.  They  think  the 
fellow  got  away  with  about  five  thousand  in  gold 
coin." 

"The  fellow?     Wasn't  there  four  of  them?" 

"  No ;  only  one.  And  say,  let  me  tell  you,  he  had  his 
nerve  with  him.  It  seems  he  was  on  the  roof  of  the  ex- 
press car  all  the  time,  and  going  as  fast  as  we  were,  he 
jumped  from  the  roof  of  the  car  down  on  to  the  coal  on 
the  engine's  tender,  and  crawled  over  that  and  held  up 
the  men  in  the  cab  with  his  gun,  took  their  guns  from  'em 
and  made  'em  stop  the  train.  Even  ordered  'em  to  use 
the  emergency  gear,  seems  he  knew  all  about  it.  Then  he 
went  back  and  uncoupled  the  express  car  himself. 


422  The  Octopus 

While  he  was  doing  this,  a  brakeman — you  remember 
that  brakeman  that  came  through  here  once  or  twice — 
had  a  red  mustache." 

"That  chap?" 

"  Sure.  Well,  as  soon  as  the  train  stopped,  this  brake- 
man guessed  something  was  wrong  and  ran  up,  saw  the 
fellow  cutting  off  the  express  car  and  took  a  couple  of 
shots  at  him,  and  the  fireman  says  the  fellow  didn't  even 
take  his  hand  off  the  coupling-pin;  just  turned  around  as 
cool  as  how-do-you-do  and  nailed  the  brakeman  right 
there.  They  weren't  five  feet  apart  when  they  began 
shooting.  The  brakeman  had  come  on  him  unexpected, 
had  no  idea  he  was  so  close." 

"  And  the  express  messenger,  all  this  time  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  did  his  best.  Jumped  out  with  his  repeating 
shot-gun,  but  the  fellow  had  him  covered  before  he  could 
turn  round.  Held  him  up  and  took  his  gun  away  from 
him.  Say,  you  know  I  call  that  nerve,  just  the  same. 
One  man  standing  up  a  whole  train-load,  like  that. 
Then,  as  soon  as  he'd  cut  the  express  car  off,  he  made 
the  engineer  run  her  up  the  track  about  half  a  mile  to  a 
road  crossing,  where  he  had  a  horse  tied.  What  do  you 
think  of  that?  Didn't  he  have  it  all  figured  out  close? 
And  when  he  got  there,  he  dynamited,  the  safe  and  got 
the  Wells-Fargo  box.  He  took  five  thousand  in  gold 
coin;  the  messenger  says  it  was  railroad  money  that  the 
company  were  sending  down  to  Bakersfield  to  pay  off 
with.  It  was  in  a  bag.  He  never  touched  the  registered 
mail,  nor  a  whole  wad  of  greenbacks  that  were  in  the 
safe,  but  just  took  the  coin,  got  on  his  horse,  and  lit  out. 
The  engineer  says  he  went  to  the  east'ard." 

"He  got  away,  did  he?" 

"Yes,  but  they  think  they'll  get  him.  He  wore  a  kind 
of  mask,  but  the  brakeman  recognised  him  positively. 
We  got  his  ante-mortem  statement.  The  brakeman  said 


A  Story  of  California  423 

the  fellow  had  a  grudge  against  the  road.  He  was  a 
discharged  employee,  and  lives  near  Bonneville." 

"  Dyke,  by  the  Lord !  "  exclaimed  Annixter. 

"  That's  the  name,"  said  the  young  doctor. 

When  the  train  arrived  at  Bonneville,  forty  minutes 
behind  time,  it  landed  Annixter  and  Hilma  in  the  midst 
of  the  very  thing  they  most  wished  to  avoid — an  enor- 
mous crowd.  The  news  that  the  Overland  had  been  held 
up  thirty  miles  south  of  Fresno,  a  brakeman  killed  and 
the  safe  looted,  and  that  Dyke  alone  was  responsible  for 
the  night's  work,  had  been  wired  on  ahead  from  Fowler, 
the  train  conductor  throwing  the  despatch  to  the  station 
agent  from  the  flying  train. 

Before  the  train  had  come  to  a  standstill  under  the 
arched  roof  of  the  Bonneville  depot,  it  was  all  but  taken 
by  assault.  Annixter,  with  Hilma  on  his  arm,  had  almost 
to  fight  his  way  out  of  the  car.  The  depot  was  black 
with  people.  S.  Behrman  was  there,  Delaney,  Cyrus 
Ruggles,  the  town  marshal,  the  mayor.  Genslinger,  his 
hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  ranged  the  train  from  cab 
to  rear-lights,  note-book  in  hand,  interviewing,  question- 
ing, collecting  facts  for  his  extra.  As  Annixter  de- 
scended finally  to  the  platform,  the  editor,  alert  as  a 
black-and-tan  terrier,  his  thin,  osseous  hands  quivering 
with  eagerness,  his  brown,  dry  face  working  with  ex- 
citement, caught  his  elbow. 

"  Can  I  have  your  version  of  the  affair,  Mr.  An- 
nixter?" 

Annixter  turned  on  him  abruptly. 

"  Yes  !  "  he  exclaimed  fiercely.  "  You  and  your  gang 
drove  Dyke  from  his  job  because  he  wouldn't  work  for 
starvation  wages.  Then  you  raised  freight  rates  on  him 
and  robbed  him  of  all  he  had.  You  ruined  him  and  drove 
him  to  fill  himself  up  with  Caraher's  whiskey.  He's 
only  taken  back  what  you  plundered  him  of,  and  now 


424  The  Octopus 

you're  going  to  hound  him  over  the  State,  hunt  him  down 
like  a  wild  animal,  and  bring  him  to  the  gallows  at  San 
Quentin.  That's  my  version  of  the  affair,  Mister  Gen- 
slinger,  but  it's  worth  your  subsidy  from  the  P.  and  S.  W. 
to  print  it." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  approval  from  the  crowd  that 
stood  around,  and  Genslinger,  with  an  angry  shrug  of 
one  shoulder,  took  himself  away. 

At  length,  Annixter  brought,  Hilma  through  the  crowd 
to  where  young  Vacca  was  waiting  with  the  team.  How- 
ever, they  could  not  at  once  start  for  the  ranch,  Annix- 
ter wishing  to  ask  some  questions  at  the  freight  office 
about  a  final  consignment  of  chairs.  It  was  nearly  eleven 
o'clock  before  they  could  start  home.  But  to  gain  the 
Upper  Road  to  Quien  Sabe,  it  was  necessary  to  traverse 
all  of  Main  Street,  running  through  the  heart  of  Bonne- 
ville. 

The  entire  town  seemed  to  be  upon  the  sidewalks.  By 
now  the  rain  was  over  and  the  sun  shining.  The  story  of 
the  hold-up — the  work  of  a  man  whom  every  one  knew 
and  liked — was  in  every  mouth.  How  had  Dyke  come  to 
do  it?  Who  would  have  believed  it  of  him?  Think  of 
his  poor  mother  and  the  little  tad.  Well,  after  all,  he 
was  not  so  much  to  blame ;  the  railroad  people  had 
brought  it  on  themselves.  But  he  had  shot  a  man  to 
death.  Ah,  that  was  a  serious  business.  Good-natured, 
big,  broad-shouldered,  jovial  Dyke,  the  man  they  knew, 
with  whom  they  had  shaken  hands  only  yesterday,  yes, 
and  drank  with  him.  He  had  shot  a  man,  killed  him, 
had  stood  there  in  the  dark  and  in  the  rain  while  they 
were  asleep  in  their  beds,  and  had  killed  a  man.  Now 
where  was  he?  Instinctively  eyes  were  turned  east- 
ward, over  the  tops  of  the  houses,  or  down  vistas  of  side 
streets  to  where  the  foot-hills  of  the  mountains  rose  dim 
and  vast  over  the  edge  of  the  valley.  He  was  in 


A  Story  of  California  425 

amongst  them ;  somewhere,  in  all  that  pile  of  blue  crests 
and  purple  canons  he  was  hidden  away.  Now  for 
weeks  of  searching,  false  alarms,  clews,  trailings,  watch- 
ings,  all  the  thrill  and  heart-bursting  excitement  of  a 
man-hunt.  Would  he  get  away  ?  Hardly  a  man  on  the 
sidewalks  of  the  town  that  day  who  did  not  hope  for  it. 

As  Annixter's  team  trotted  through  the  central  por- 
tion of  the  town,  young  Vacca  pointed  to  a  denser  and 
larger  crowd  around  the  rear  entrance  of  the  City  Hall. 
Fully  twenty  saddle  horses  were  tied  to  the  iron  rail  un- 
derneath the  scant,  half -grown  trees  near  by,  and  as  An- 
nixter  and  Hilma  drove  by,  the  crowd  parted  and  a 
dozen  men  with  revolvers  on  their  hips  pushed  their  way 
to  the  curbstone,  and,  mounting  their  horses,  rode  away 
at  a  gallop. 

"  It's  the  posse,"  said  young  Vacca. 

Outside  the  town  limits  the  ground  was  level.  There 
was  nothing  to  obstruct  the  view,  and  to  the  north,  in  the 
direction  of  Osterman's  ranch,  Vacca  made  out  another 
party  of  horsemen,  galloping  eastward,  and  beyond  these 
still  another. 

"  There're  the  other  posses/'  he  announced.  "That  fur- 
ther one  is  Archie  Moore's.  He's  the  sheriff.  He  came 
down  from  Visalia  on  a  special  engine  this  morning.1' 

When  the  team  turned  into  the  driveway  to  the  ranch 
house,  Hilma  uttered  a  little  cry,  clasping  her  hands 
joyfully.  The  house  was  one  glitter  of  new  white  paint, 
the  driveway  had  been  freshly  gravelled,  the  flower-beds 
replenished.  Mrs.  Vacca  and  her  daughter,  who  had 
been  busy  putting  on  the  finishing  touches,  came  to  the 
door  to  welcome  them. 

"  What's  this  case  here  ?  "  asked  Annixter,  when,  after 
helping  his  wife  from  the  carry-all,  his  eye  fell  upon  a 
wooden  box  of  some  three  by  five  feet  that  stood  on  the 
porch  and  bore  the  red  Wells-Fargo  label. 


426  The  Octopus 

"  It  came  here  last  night,  addressed  to  you,  sir/'  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Vacca.  "  We  were  sure  it  wasn't  any  of 
your  furniture,  so  we  didn't  open  it." 

"  Oh,  maybe  it's  a  wedding  present,"  exclaimed  Hilma, 
her  eyes  sparkling. 

"  Well,  maybe  it  is,"  returned  her  husband.  "  Here, 
m'  son,  help  me  in  with  this." 

Annixter  and  young  Vacca  bore  the  case  into  the  sit- 
ting-room of  the  house,  and  Annixter,  hammer  in  hand, 
attacked  it  vigorously.  Vacca  discreetly  withdrew  on 
signal  from  his  mother,  closing  the  door  after  him.  An- 
nixter and  his  wife  were  left  alone. 

"  Oh,  hurry,  hurry/'  cried  Hilma,  dancing  around  him. 

"  I  want  to  see  what  it  is.  Who  do  you  suppose  could 
have  sent  it  to  us?  And  so  heavy,  too.  What  do  you 
think  it  can  be?  " 

Annixter  put  the  claw  of  the  hammer  underneath  the 
edge  of  the  board  top  and  wrenched  with  all  his  might. 
The  boards  had  been  clamped  together  by  a  transverse 
bar  and  the  whole  top  of  the  box  came  away  in  one 
piece.  A  layer  of  excelsior  was  disclosed,  and  on  it  a 
letter  addressed  by  typewriter  to  Annixter.  It  bore  the 
trade-mark  of  a  business  firm  of  Los  Angeles.  Annixter 
glanced  at  this  and  promptly  caught  it  up  before  Hilma 
could  see,  with  an  exclamation  of  intelligence. 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  this  is,"  he  observed,  carelessly  try- 
ing to  restrain  her  busy  hands.  "  It  isn't  anything.  Just 
some  machinery.  Let  it  go." 

But  already  she  had  pulled  away  the  excelsior.  Un- 
derneath, in  temporary  racks,  were  two  dozen  Winches- 
ter repeating  rifles. 

"  Why — what — what — "  murmured  Hilma  blankly. 

"  Well,  I  told  you  not  to  mind,"  said  Annixter.  "  It 
isn't  anything.  Let's  look  through  the  rooms." 

"  But  you  said  you  knew  what  it  was,"  she  protested, 


A  Story  of  California  427 

bewildered.  "  You  wanted  to  make  believe  it  was  ma- 
chinery. Are  you  keeping  anything  from  me  ?  Tell  me 
what  it  all  means.  Oh,  why  are  you  getting — these  ?  " 

She  caught  his  arm,  looking  with  intense  eagerness  into 
his  face.  She  half  understood  already.  Annixter  saw 
that. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  lamely,  "  you  know — it  may  not  come 
to  anything  at  all,  but  you  know — well,  this  League  of 
ours — suppose  the  Railroad  tries  to  jump  Quien  Sabe  or 
Los  Muertos  or  any  of  the  other  ranches — we  made  up 
our  minds — the  Leaguers  have — that  we  wouldn't  let 
it.  That's  all." 

"  And  I  thought,"  cried  Hilma,  drawing  back  fear- 
fully from  the  case  of  rifles,  "  and  I  thought  it  was  a 
wedding  present." 

And  that  was  their  home-coming,  the  end  of  their 
bridal  trip.  Through  the  terror  of  the  night,  echoing 
with  pistol  shots,  through  that  scene  of  robbery  and  mur- 
der, into  this  atmosphere  of  alarms,  a  man-hunt  organ- 
ising, armed  horsemen  silhouetted  against  the  horizons, 
cases  of  rifles  where  wedding  presents  should  have  been, 
Annixter  brought  his  young  wife  to  be  mistress  of  a 
home  he  might  at  any  moment  be  called  upon  to  defend 
with  his  life. 

The  days  passed.  Soon  a  week  had  gone  by.  Magnus 
Derrick  and  Osterman  returned  from  the  city  without 
any  definite  idea  as  to  the  Corporation's  plans.  Lyman 
had  been  reticent.  He  knew  nothing  as  to  the  progress 
of  the  land  cases  in  Washington.  There  was  no  news. 
The  Executive  Committee  of  the  League  held  a  per- 
functory meeting  at  Los  Muertos  at  which  nothing  but 
routine  business  was  transacted.  A  scheme  put  forward 
by  Osterman  for  a  conference  with  the  railroad  man- 
agers fell  through  because  of  the  refusal  of  the  company 
to  treat  with  the  ranchers  upon  any  other  basis  than 


428  The  Octopus 

that  of  the  new  grading.  It  was  impossible  to  learn 
whether  or  not  the  company  considered  Los  Muertos, 
Quien  Sabe,  and  the  ranches  around  Bonneville  covered 
by  the  test  cases  then  on  appeal. 

Meanwhile  there  was  no  decrease  in  the  excitement 
that  Dyke's  hold-up  had  set  loose  over  all  the  county. 
Day  after  day  it  was  the  one  topic  of  conversation,  at 
street  corners,  at  cross-roads,  over  dinner  tables,  in  office, 
bank,  and  store.  S.  Behrman  placarded  the  town  with  a 
notice  of  $500.00  reward  for  the  ex-engineer's  capture, 
dead  or  alive,  and  the  express  company  supplemented 
this  by  another  offer  of  an  equal  amount.  The  country 
was  thick  with  parties  of  horsemen,  armed  with  rifles 
and  revolvers,  recruited  from  Visalia,  Goshen,  and  the 
few  railroad  sympathisers  around  Bonneville  and  Guad- 
lajara.  One  after  another  of  these  returned,  empty- 
handed,  covered  with  dust  and  mud,  their  horses  ex- 
hausted, to  be  met  and  passed  by  fresh  posses  starting 
out  to  continue  the  pursuit.  The  sheriff  of  Santa  Clara 
County  sent  down  his  bloodhounds  from  San  Jose — 
small,  harmless-looking  dogs,  with  a  terrific  bay — to  help 
in  the  chase.  Reporters  from  the  San  Francisco  papers 
appeared,  interviewing  every  one,  sometimes  even  accom- 
panying the  searching  bands.  Horse  hoofs  clattered  over 
the  roads  at  night ;  bells  were  rung,  the  "  Mercury  "  is- 
sued extra  after  extra ;  the  bloodhounds  bayed,  gun  butts 
clashed  on  the  asphalt  pavements  of  Bonneville ;  acci- 
dental discharges  of  revolvers  brought  the  whole  town 
into  the  street ;  farm  hands  called  to  each  other  across 
the  fences  of  ranch-divisions — in  a  word,  the  country- 
side was  in  an  uproar. 

And  all  to  no  effect.  The  hoof-marks  of  Dyke's  horse 
had  been  traced  in  the  mud  of  the  road  to  within  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  of  the  foot-hills  and  there  irretrievably  lost. 
Three  days  after  the  hold-up,  a  sheep-herder  was  found 


A  Story  of  California  429 

who  had  seen  the  highwayman  on  a  ridge  in  the  higher 
mountains,  to  the  northeast  of  Taurusa.  And  that  was 
absolutely  all.  Rumours  were  thick,  promising  clews 
were  discovered,  new  trails  taken  up,  but  nothing  trans- 
pired to  bring  the  pursuers  and  pursued  any  closer  to- 
gether. Then,  after  ten  days  of  strain,  public  interest 
began  to  flag.  It  was  believed  that  Dyke  had  succeeded 
in  getting  away.  If  this  was  true,  he  had  gone  to  the 
southward,  after  gaining  the  mountains,  and  it  would 
be  his  intention  to  work  out  of  the  range  some- 
where near  the  southern  part  of  the  San  Joaquin, 
near  Bakersfield.  Thus,  the  sheriffs,  marshals,  and  depu- 
ties decided.  They  had  hunted  too  many  criminals  in 
these  mountains  before  not  to  know  the  usual  courses 
taken.  In  time,  Dyke  must  come  out  of  the  mountains  to 
get  water  and  provisions.  But  this  time  passed,  and  from 
not  one  of  the  watched  points  came  any  word  of  his  ap- 
pearance. At  last  the  posses  began  to  disband.  Little 
by  little  the  pursuit  was  given  up. 

Only  S.  Behrman  persisted.  He  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  bring  Dyke  in.  He  succeeded  in  arousing  the  same 
degree  of  determination  in  Delaney — by  now,  a  trusted 
aide  of  the  Railroad — and  of  his  own  cousin,  a  real  estate 
broker,  named  Christian,  who  knew  the  mountains  and 
had  once  been  marshal  of  Visalia  in  the  old  stock-raising 
days.  These  two  went  into  the  Sierras,  accompanied  by 
two  hired  deputies,  and  carrying  with  them  a  month's 
provisions  and  two  of  the  bloodhounds  loaned  by  the 
Santa  Clara  sheriff. 

On  a  certain  Sunday,  a  few  days  after  the  departure 
of  Christian  and  Delaney,  Annixter,  who  had  been  read- 
ing "  David  Copperfield  "  in  his  hammock  on  the  porch 
of  the  ranch  house,  put  down  the  book  and  went  to  find 
Hilma,  who  was  helping  Louisa  Vacca  set  the  table  for 
dinner.  He  found  her  in  the  dining-room,  her  hands 


430  The  Octopus 

full  of  the  gold-bordered  china  plates,  only  used  on 
special  occasions  and  which  Louisa  was  forbidden  to 
touch. 

His  wife  was  more  than  ordinarily  pretty  that  day. 
She  wore  a  dress  of  flowered  organdie  over  pink  sateen, 
with  pink  ribbons  about  her  waist  and  neck,  and  on  her 
slim  feet  the  low  shoes  she  always  affected,  with  their 
smart,  bright  buckles.  Her  thick,  brown,  sweet-smelling 
hair  was  heaped  high  upon  her  head  and  set  off  with  a 
bow  of  black  velvet,  and  underneath  the  shadow  of  its 
coils,  her  wide-open  eyes,  rimmed  with  the  thin,  black 
line  of  her  lashes,  shone  continually,  reflecting  the  sun- 
light. Marriage  had  only  accentuated  the  beautiful 
maturity  of  Hilma's  figure — now  no  longer  precocious — 
defining  the  single,  deep  swell  from  her  throat  to  her 
waist,  the  strong,  fine  amplitude  of  her  hips,  the  sweet, 
feminine  undulation  of  her  neck  and  shoulders.  Her 
cheeks  were  pink  with  health,  and  her  large  round  arms 
carried  the  piled-up  dishes  with  never  a  tremour.  Annix- 
ter,  observant  enough  where  his  wife  was  concerned, 
noted  how  the  reflection  of  the  white  china  set  a  glow  of 
pale  light  underneath  her  chin. 

"  Hilma,"  he  said,  "  I've  been  wondering  lately  about 
things.  We're  so  blamed  happy  ourselves  it  won't  do  for 
us  to  forget  about  other  people  who  are  down,  will  it? 
Might  change  our  luck.  And  I'm  just  likely  to  forget 
that  way,  too.  It's  my  nature." 

His  wife  looked  up  at  him  joyfully.  Here  was  the 
new  Annixter,  certainly. 

"  In  all  this  hullabaloo  about  Dyke,"  he  went  on, 
"  there's  some  one  nobody  ain't  thought  about  at  all. 
That's  Mrs.  Dyke — and  the  little  tad.  I  wouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  they  were  in  a  hole  over  there.  What  do  you 
say  we  drive  over  to  the  hop  ranch  after  dinner  and  see 
if  she  wants  anything?" 


A  Story  of  California  431 

Hilma  put  down  the  plates  and  came  around  the  table 
and  kissed  him  without  a  word. 

As  soon  as  their  dinner  was  over,  Annixter  had  the 
carry-all  hitched  up,  and,  dispensing  with  young  Vacca, 
drove  over  to  the  hop  ranch  with  Hilma. 

Hilma  could  not  keep  back  the  tears  as  they  passed 
through  the  lamentable  desolation  of  the  withered, 
brown  vines,  symbols  of  perished  hopes  and  abandoned 
effort,  and  Annixter  swore  between  his  teeth. 

Though  the  wheels  of  the  carry-all  grated  loudly  on 
the  roadway  in  front  of  the  house,  nobody  came  to  the 
door  nor  looked  from  the  windows.  The  place  seemed 
tenantless,  infinitely  lonely,  infinitely  sad. 

Annixter  tied  the  team,  and  with  Hilma  approached 
the  wide-open  door,  scuffling  and  tramping  on  the  porch 
to  attract  attention.  Nobody  stirred.  A  Sunday  stillness 
pervaded  the  place.  Outside,  the  withered  hop-leaves 
rustled  like  dry  paper  in  the  breeze.  The  quiet  was 
ominous.  They  peered  into  the  front  room  from  the 
doorway,  Hilma  holding  her  husband's  hand.  Mrs.  Dyke 
was  there.  She  sat  at  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
her  head,  with  its  white  hair,  down  upon  her  arm.  A 
clutter  of  unwashed  dishes  were  strewed  over  the  red 
and  white  tablecloth.  The  unkempt  room,  once  a 
marvel  of  neatness,  had  not  been  cleaned  for  days. 
Newspapers,  Genslinger's  extras  and  copies  of  San 
Francisco  and  Los  Angeles  dailies  were  scattered  all 
over  the  room.  On  the  table  itself  were  crumpled  yellow 
telegrams,  a  dozen  of  them,  a  score  of  them,  blowing 
about  in  the  draught  from  the  door.  And  in  the  midst  of 
all  this  disarray,  surrounded  by  the  published  accounts 
of  her  son's  crime,  the  telegraphed  answers  to  her  pitiful 
appeals  for  tidings  fluttering  about  her  head,  the  high- 
wayman's mother,  worn  out,  abandoned  and  forgotten, 
slept  through  the  stillness  of  the  Sunday  afternoon. 


432  The  Octopus 

Neither  Hilma  nor  Annixter  ever  forgot  their  interview 
with  Mrs.  Dyke  that  day.  Suddenly  waking,  she  had 
caught  sight  of  Annixter,  and  at  once  exclaimed  eagerly : 

"  Is  there  any  news  ?  " 

For  a  long  time  afterwards  nothing  could  be  got  from 
her.  She  was  numb  to  all  other  issues  than  the  one  ques- 
tion of  Dyke's  capture.  She  did  not  answer  their  ques- 
tions nor  reply  to  their  offers  of  assistance.  Hilma  and 
Annixter  conferred  together  without  lowering  their 
voices,  at  her  very  elbow,  while  she  looked  vacantly  at 
the  floor,  drawing  one  hand  over  the  other  in  a  persistent, 
maniacal  gesture.  From  time  to  time  she  would  start 
suddenly  from  her  chair,  her  eyes  wide,  and  as  if  all  at 
once  realising  Annixter's  presence,  would  cry  out : 

"  Is  there  any  news  ?  " 

"Where  is  Sidney,  Mrs.  Dyke?"  asked  Hilma  for  the 
fourth  time.  "  Is  she  well?  Is  she  taken  care  of?  " 

"  Here's  the  last  telegram,"  said  Mrs.  Dyke,  in  a  loud, 
monotonous  voice.  "  See,  it  says  there  is  no  news.  He 
didn't  do  it,"  she  moaned,  rocking  herself  back  and  forth, 
drawing  one  hand  over  the  other,  "  he  didn't  do  it,  he 
didn't  do  it,  he  didn't  do  it.  I  don't  know  where  he  is." 

When  at  last  she  came  to  herself,  it  was  with  a  flood  of 
tears.  Hilma  put  her  arms  around  the  poor,  old  woman, 
as  she  bowed  herself  again  upon  the  table,  sobbing  and 
weeping. 

"  Oh,  my  son,  my  son,"  she  cried,  "  my  own  boy,  my 
only  son !  If  I  could  have  died  for  you  to  have  prevented 
this.  I  remember  him  when  he  was  little.  Such  a  splen- 
did little  fellow,  so  brave,  so  loving,  with  never  an  unkind 
thought,  never  a  mean  action.  So  it  was  all  his  life.  We 
were  never  apart.  It  was  always  '  dear  little  son/  and 
'  dear  mammy '  between  us — never  once  was  he  unkind, 
and  he  loved  me  and  was  the  gentlest  son  to  me.  And  he 
was  a  good  man.  He  is  now,  he  is  now.  They  don't  un- 


A  Story  of  California  433 

clerstand  him.  They  are  not  even  sure  that  he  did  this. 
He  never  meant  it.  They  don't  know  my  son.  Why,  he 
wouldn't  have  hurt  a  kitten.  Everybody  loved  him.  He 
was  driven  to  it.  They  hounded  him  down,  they  wouldn't 
let  him  alone.  He  was  not  right  in  his  mind.  They 
hounded  him  to  it,"  she  cried  fiercely,  "  they  hounded 
him  to  it.  They  drove  him  and  goaded  him  till  he 
couldn't  stand  it  any  longer,  and  now  they  mean  to  kill 
him  for  turning  on  them.  They  are  hunting  him  with 
dogs;  night  after  night  I  have  stood  on  the  porch  and 
heard  the  dogs  baying  far  off.  They  are  tracking  my  boy 
with  dogs  like  a  wild  animal.  May  God  never  forgive 
them."  She  rose  to  her  feet,  terrible,  her  white  hair  un- 
bound. "  May  God  punish  them  as  they  deserve,  may 
they  never  prosper — on  my  knees  I  shall  pray  for  it  every 
night — may  their  money  be  a  curse  to  them,  may  their 
sons,  their  first-born,  only  sons,  be  taken  from  them  in 
their  youth." 

But  Hilma  interrupted,  begging  her  to  be  silent,  to  be 
quiet.  The  tears  came  again  then  and  the  choking  sobs. 
Hilma  took  her  in  her  arms. 

"  Oh,  my  little  boy,  my  little  boy,"  she  cried.  "  My 
only  son,  all  that  I  had,  to  have  come  to  this !  He  was 
not  right  in  his  mind  or  he  would  have  known  it  would 
break  my  heart.  Oh,  my  son,  my  son,  if  I  could  have 
died  for  you." 

Sidney  came  in,  clinging  to  her  dress,  weeping,  implor- 
ing her  not  to  cry,  protesting  that  they  never  could  catch 
her  papa,  that  he  would  come  back  soon.  Hilma  took 
them  both,  the  little  child  and  the  broken-down  old 
woman,  in  the  great  embrace  of  her  strong  arms,  and  they 
all  three  sobbed  together. 

Annixter  stood  on  the  porch  outside,  his  back  turned, 
looking  straight  before  him  into  the  wilderness  of  dead 
vines,  his  teeth  shut  hard,  his  lower  lip  thrust  out. 


434  The  Octopus 

"  I  hope  S.  Behrman  is  satisfied  with  all  this,"  he  mut- 
tered. "  I  hope  he  is  satisfied  now,  damn  his  soul !" 

All  at  once  an  idea  occurred  to  him.  He  turned  about 
and  reentered  the  room. 

"  Mrs.  Dyke,"  he  began,  "  I  want  you  and  Sidney  to 
come  over  and  live  at  Quien  Sabe.  I  know — you  can't 
make  me  believe  that  the  reporters  and  officers  and 
officious  busy- faces  that  pretend  to  offer  help  just  so  as 
they  can  satisfy  their  curiosity  aren't  nagging  you  to 
death.  I  want  you  to  let  me  take  care  of  you  and  the 
little  tad  till  all  this  trouble  of  yours  is  over  with. 
There's  plenty  of  place  for  you.  You  can  have  the 
house  my  wife's  people  used  to  live  in.  You've  got 
to  look  these  things  in  the  face.  What  are  you  going 
to  do  to  get  along?  You  must  be  very  short  of  money. 
S.  Behrman  will  foreclose  on  you  and  take  the  whole 
place  in  a  little  while,  now.  I  want  you  to  let  me  help 
you,  let  Hilma  and  me  be  good  friends  to  you.  It 
would  be  a  privilege." 

Mrs.  Dyke  tried  bravely  to  assume  her  pride,  insisting 
that  she  could  manage,  but  her  spirit  was  broken.  The 
whole  affair  ended  unexpectedly,  with  Annixter  and 
Hilma  bringing  Dyke's  mother  and  little  girl  back  to 
Quien  Sabe  in  the  carry-all. 

Mrs.  Dyke  would  not  take  with  her  a  stick  of  furniture 
nor  a  single  ornament.  It  would  only  serve  to  remind  her 
of  a  vanished  happiness.  She  packed  a  few  clothes  of  her 
own  and  Sidney's  in  a  little  trunk,  Hilma  helping  her, 
and  Annixter  stowed  the  trunk  under  the  carry-all's  back 
seat.  Mrs.  Dyke  turned  the  key  in  the  door  of  the  house 
and  Annixter  helped  her  to  her  seat  beside  his  wife.  They 
drove  through  the  sear,  brown  hop  vines.  At  the  angle 
of  the  road  Mrs.  Dyke  turned  around  and  looked  back  at 
the  ruin  of  the  hop  ranch,  the  roof  of  the  house  just 
showing  above  the  trees.  She  never  saw  it  again. 


A  Story  of  California  435 

As  soon  as  Annixter  and  Hilma  were  alone,  after  their 
return  to  Quien  Sabe — Mrs.  Dyke  and  Sidney  having 
been  installed  in  the  Trees'  old  house — Hilma  threw  her 
arms  around  her  husband's  neck. 

"  Fine/'  she  exclaimed,  "  oh,  it  was  fine  of  you,  dear, 
to  think  of  them  and  to  be  so  good  to  them.  My  husband 
is  such  a  good  man.  So  unselfish.  You  wouldn't  have 
thought  of  being  kind  to  Mrs.  Dyke  and  Sidney  a  little 
while  ago.  You  wouldn't  have  thought  of  them  at  all. 
But  you  did  now,  and  it's  just  because  you  love  me  true, 
isn't  it?  Isn't  it?  And  because  it's  made  you  a  better 
man.  I'm  so  proud  and  glad  to  think  it's  so.  It  is  so, 
isn't  it?  Just  because  you  love  me  true." 

"  You  bet  it  is,  Hilma,"  he  told  her. 

As  Hilma  and  Annixter  were  sitting  down  to  the  sup- 
per which  they  found  waiting  for  them,  Louisa  Vacca 
came  to  the  door  of  the  dining-room  to  say  that  Harran 
Derrick  had  telephoned  over  from  Los  Muertos  for 
Annixter,  and  had  left  word  for  him  to  ring  up  Los 
Muertos  as  soon  as  he  came  in. 

"  He  said  it  was  important,"  added  Louisa  Vacca. 

"  Maybe  they  have  news  from  Washington,"  suggested 
Hilma. 

Annixter  would  not  wait  to  have  supper,  but  tele- 
phoned to  Los  Muertos  at  once.  Magnus  answered  the 
call.  There  was  a  special  meeting  of  the  Executive  Com- 
mittee of  the  League  summoned  for  the  next  day,  he  told 
Annixter.  It  was  for  the  purpose  of  considering  the  new 
grain  tariff  prepared  by  the  Railroad  Commissioners. 
Lyman  had  written  that  the  schedule  of  this  tariff  had 
just  been  issued,  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  construct  it 
precisely  according  to  the  wheat-growers'  wishes,  and 
that  he,  himself,  would  come  down  to  Los  Muertos  and 
explain  its  apparent  discrepancies.  Magnus  said  Lyman 
would  be  present  at  the  session. 


436  The  Octopus 

Annixter,  curious  for  details,  forbore,  nevertheless,  to 
question.  The  connection  from  Los  Muertos  to  Quien 
Sabe  was  made  through  Bonneville,  and  in  those  trouble- 
some times  no  one  could  be  trusted.  It  could  not  be 
known  who  would  overhear  conversations  carried  on  over 
the  lines.  He  assured  Magnus  that  he  would  be  on  hand. 

The  time  for  the  Committee  meeting  had  been  set  for 
seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  in  order  to  accommodate 
Lyman,  who  wrote  that  he  would  be  down  on  the  evening 
train,  but  would  be  compelled,  by  pressure  of  business, 
to  return  to  the  city  early  the  next  morning. 

At  the  time  appointed,  the  men  composing  the  Com- 
mittee gathered  about  the  table  in  the  dining-room  of  the 
Los  Muertos  ranch  house.  It  was  almost  a  reproduction 
of  the  scene  of  the  famous  evening  when  Osterman  had 
proposed  the  plan  of  the  Ranchers'  Railroad  Commission. 
Magnus  Derrick  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  in  his  but- 
toned frock  coat.  Whiskey  bottles  and  siphons  of  soda- 
water  were  within  easy  reach.  Presley,  who  by  now  was 
considered  the  confidential  friend  of  every  member  of  the 
Committee,  lounged  as  before  on  the  sofa,  smoking  cigar- 
ettes, the  cat  Nathalie  on  his  knee.  Besides  Magnus  and 
Annixter,  Osterman  was  present,  and  old  Broderson  and 
Harran ;  Garnet  from  the  Ruby  Rancho  and  Gethings  of 
the  San  Pablo,  who  were  also  members  of  the  Executive 
Committee,  were  on  hand,  preoccupied,  bearded  men, 
smoking  black  cigars,  and,  last  of  all,  Dabney,  the  silent 
old  man,  of  whom  little  was  known  but  his  name,  and 
who  had  been  made  a  member  of  the  Committee,  nobody 
could  tell  why. 

"  My  son  Lyman  should  be  here,  gentlemen,  within  at 
least  ten  minutes.  I  have  sent  my  team  to  meet  him  at 
Bonneville,"  explained  Magnus,  as  he  called  the  meeting 
to  order.  "  The  Secretary  will  call  the  roll." 

Osterman  called  the  roll,  and,  to  fill  in  the  time,  read 


A  Story  of  California  437 

over  the  minutes  of  the  previous  meeting.  The  treasurer 
was  making  his  report  as  to  the  funds  at  the  disposal 
of  the  League  when  Lyman  arrived. 

Magnus  and  Harran  went  forward  to  meet  him,  and 
the  Committee  rather  awkwardly  rose  and  remained 
standing  while  the  three  exchanged  greetings,  the  mem- 
bers, some  of  whom  had  never  seen  their  commissioner, 
eyeing  him  out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes. 

Lyman  was  dressed  with  his  usual  correctness.  His 
cravat  was  of  the  latest  fashion,  his  clothes  of  careful 
design  and  unimpeachable  fit.  His  shoes,  of  patent 
leather,  reflected  the  lamplight,  and  he  carried  a  drab  over- 
coat over  his  arm.  Before  being  introduced  to  the  Com- 
mittee, he  excused  himself  a  moment  and  ran  to  see  his 
mother,  who  waited  for  him  in  the  adjoining  sitting- 
room.  But  in  a  few  moments  he  returned,  asking  pardon 
lor  the  delay. 

He-was  all  affability ;  his  protruding  eyes,  that  gave  such 
an  unusual,  foreign  appearance  to  his  very  dark  face, 
radiated  geniality.  He  was  evidently  anxious  to  please, 
to  produce  a  good  impression  upon  the  grave,  clumsy 
farmers  before  whom  he  stood.  But  at  the  same  time, 
Presley,  watching  him  from  his  place  on  the  sofa,  could 
imagine  that  he  was  rather  nervous.  He  was  too  nimble 
in  his  cordiality,  and  the  little  gestures  he  made  in  bring- 
ing his  cuffs  into  view  and  in  touching  the  ends  of  his 
tight,  black  mustache  with  the  ball  of  his  thumb  were 
repeated  with  unnecessary  frequency. 

"  Mr.  Broderson,  my  son,  Lyman,  my  eldest  son.  Mr. 
Annixter,  my  son,  Lyman." 

The  Governor  introduced  him  to  the  ranchers,  proud  of 
Lyman's  good  looks,  his  correct  dress,  his  ease  of  manner. 
Lyman  shook  hands  all  around,  keeping  up  a  flow  of 
small  talk,  finding  a  new  phrase  for  each  member,  compli- 
menting Osterman,  whom  he  already  knew,  upon  his 


43  8  The  Octopus 

talent  for  organisation,  recalling  a  mutual  acquaintance 
to  the  mind  of  old  Broderson.  At  length,  however,  he 
sat  down  at  the  end  of  the  table,  opposite  his  brother. 
There  was  a  silence. 

Magnus  rose  to  recapitulate  the  reasons  for  the  extra 
session  of  the  Committee,  stating  again  that  the  Board  of 
Railway  Commissioners  which  they — the  ranchers — had 
succeeded  in  seating  had  at  length  issued  the  new  sched- 
ule of  reduced  rates,  and  that  Mr.  Derrick  had  been  oblig- 
ing enough  to  offer  to  come  down  to  Los  Muertos  in 
person  to  acquaint  the  wheat-growers  of  the  San  Joaquin 
with  the  new  rates  for  the  carriage  of  their  grain. 

But  Lyman  very  politely  protested,  addressing  his 
father  punctiliously  as  "  Mr.  Chairman,"  and  the  other 
ranchers  as  "  Gentlemen  of  the  Executive  Committee  of 
the  League."  He  had  no  wish,  he  said,  to  disarrange  the 
regular  proceedings  of  the  Committee.  Would  it  not  be 
preferable  to  defer  the  reading  of  his  report  till  *'  new 
business "  was  called  for  ?  In  the  meanwhile,  let  the 
Committee  proceed  with  its  usual  work.  He  understood 
the  necessarily  delicate  nature  of  this  work,  and  would 
be  pleased  to  withdraw  till  the  proper  time  arrived  for 
him  to  speak.  . 

"  Good  deal  of  backing  and  filling  about  the  reading  of 
a  column  of  figures,"  muttered  Annixter  to  the  man  at 
his  elbow. 

Lyman  "  awaited  the  Committee's  decision."  He  sat 
down,  touching  the  ends  of  his  mustache. 

"  Oh,  play  ball,"  growled  Annixter. 

Gethings  rose  to  say  that  as  the  meeting  had  been 
called  solely  for  the  purpose  of  hearing  and  considering 
the  new  grain  tariff,  he  was  of  the  opinion  that  routine 
business  could  be  dispensed  with  and  the  schedule  read 
at  once.  It  was  so  ordered. 

Lyman  rose  and  made  a  long  speech.    Voluble  as  Os- 


A  Story  of  California  439 

terman  himself,  he,  nevertheless,  had  at  his  command  a 
vast  number  of  ready-made  phrases,  the  staples  of  a  po- 
litical speaker,  the  stock  in  trade  of  the  commercial  law- 
yer, which  rolled  off  his  tongue  with  the  most  persuasive 
fluency.  By  degrees,  in  the  course  of  his  speech,  he  be- 
gan to  insinuate  the  idea  that  the  wheat-growers  had 
never  expected  to  settle  their  difficulties  with  the  Railroad 
by  the  work  of  a  single  commission ;  that  they  had  counted 
upon  a  long,  continued  campaign  of  many  years,  railway 
commission  succeeding  railway  commission,  before  the 
desired  low  rates  should  be  secured ;  that  the  present 
Board  of  Commissioners  was  only  the  beginning  and 
that  too  great  results  were  not  expected  from  them. 
All  this  he  contrived  to  mention  casually,  in  the  talk,  as 
if  it  were  a  foregone  conclusion,  a  matter  understood 
by  all. 

As  the  speech  continued,  the  eyes  of  the  ranchers 
around  the  table  were  fixed  with  growing  attention  upon 
this  well-dressed,  city-bred  young  man,  who  spoke  so 
fluently  and  who  told  them  of  their  own  intentions.  A 
feeling  of  perplexity  began  to  spread,  and  the  first  taint 
of  distrust  invaded  their  minds. 

"  But  the  good  work  has  been  most  auspiciously  in- 
augurated/' continued  Lyman.  "  Reforms  so  sweeping 
as  the  one  contemplated  cannot  be  accomplished  in  a 
single  night.  Great  things  grow  slowly,  benefits  to  be 
permanent  must  accrue  gradually.  Yet,  in  spite  of  all 
this,  your  commissioners  have  done  much.  Already  the 
phalanx  of  the  enemy  is  pierced,  already  his  armour  is 
dinted.  Pledged  as  were  your  commissioners  to  an  aver- 
age ten  per  cent,  reduction  in  rates  for  the  carriage  of 
grain  by  the  Pacific  and  Southwestern  Railroad,  we  have 
rigidly  adhered  to  the  demands  of  our  constituency,  we 
have  obeyed  the  People.  The  main  problem  has  not  yet 
been  completely  solved;  that  is  for  later,  when  we  shall 


440  The  Octopus 

have  gathered  sufficient  strength  to  attack  the  enemy  in 
his  very  stronghold ;  but  an  average  ten  per  cent,  cut  has 
been  made  all  over  the  State.  We  have  made  a  great  ad- 
vance, have  taken  a  great  step  forward,  and  if  the  work 
is  carried  ahead,  upon  the  lines  laid  down  by  the  present 
commissioners  and  their  constituents,  there  is  every  rea- 
son to  believe  that  within  a  very  few  years  equitable  and 
stable  rates  for  the  shipment  of  grain  from  the  San 
Joaquin  Valley  to  Stockton,  Port  Costa,  and  tidewater 
will  be  permanently  imposed." 

"  Well,  hold  on,"  exclaimed  Annixter,  out  of  order  and 
ignoring  the  Governor's  reproof,  "  hasn't  your  commis- 
sion reduced  grain  rates  in  the  San  Joaquin  ?  " 

"  We  have  reduced  grain  rates  by  ten  per  cent,  all  over 
the  State,"  rejoined  Lyman.  "  Here  are  copies  of  the 
new  schedule." 

He  drew  them  from  his  valise  and  passed  them  around 
the  table. 

"  You  see,"  he  observed,  "  the  rate  between  Mayfield 
and  Oakland,  for  instance,  has  been  reduced  by  twenty- 
five  cents  a  ton." 

"  Yes — but— but— "  said  old  Broderson,  "  it  is  rather 
unusual,  isn't  it,  for  wheat  in  that  district  to  be  sent  to 
Oakland?" 

"  Why,  look  here,"  exclaimed  Annixter,  looking  up 
from  the  schedule,  "  where  is  there  any  reduction  in  rates 
in  the  San  Joaquin — from  Bonneville  and  Guadalajara, 
for  instance?  I  don't  see  as  you've  made  any  reduction 
at  all.  Is  this  right?  Did  you  give  me  the  right 
schedule?" 

"  Of  course,  all  the  points  in  the  Stpte  could  not  be 
covered  at  once,"  returned  Lyman.  "  We  never  expected, 
you  know,  that  we  could  cut  rates  in  the  San  Joaquin 
the  very  first  move ;  that  is  for  later.  But  you  will  see 
we  made  very  material  reductions  on  shipments  from  the 


A  Story  of  California  441 

upper  Sacramento  Valley;  also  the  rate  from  lone  to 
Marysville  has  been  reduced  eighty  cents  a  ton/' 

"  Why,  rot,"  cried  Annixter,  "  no  one  ever  ships  wheat 
that  way." 

"  The  Salinas  rate/'  continued  Lyman,  "  has  been  low- 
ered seventy-five  cents;  the  St.  Helena  rate  fifty  cents, 
and  please  notice  the  very  drastic  cut  from  Red  Bluff, 
north,  along  the  Oregon  route,  to  the  Oregon  State 
Line/' 

"  Where  not  a  carload  of  wheat  is  shipped  in  a  year,"" 
commented  Gethings  of  the  San  Pablo. 

"  Oh,  you  will  find  yourself  mistaken  there,  Mr. 
Gethings/'  returned  Lyman  courteously.  "And  for  the 
matter  of  that,  a  low  rate  would  stimulate  wheat- 
production  in  that  district." 

The  order  of  the  meeting  was  broken  up,  neglected; 
Magnus  did  not  even  pretend  to  preside.  In  the  growing 
excitement  over  the  inexplicable  schedule,  routine  was  not 
thought  of.  Every  one  spoke  at  will. 

"  Why,  Lyman,"  demanded  Magnus,  looking  across  the 
table  to  his  son,  "  is  this  schedule  correct  ?  You  have  not 
cut  rates  in  the  San  Joaquin  at  all.  We — these  gentle- 
men here  and  myself,  we  are  no  better  off  than  we  were 
before  we  secured  your  election  as  commissioner." 

"  We  were  pledged  to  make  an  average  ten  per  cent, 
cut,  sir " 

"  It  is  an  average  ten  per  cent,  cut,"  cried  Osterman. 
"  Oh,  yes,  that's  plain.  It's  an  average  ten  per  cent,  cut 
all  right,  but  you've  made  it  by  cutting  grain  rates  be- 
tween points  where  practically  no  grain  is  shipped. 
We,  the  wheat-growers  in  the  San  Joaquin,  where  all 
the  wheat  is  grown,  are  right  where  we  were  before. 
The  Railroad  won't  lose  a  nickel.  By  Jingo,  boys,"  he 
glanced  around  the  table,  "  I'd  like  to  know  what  this 
means/' 


442  The  Octopus 

"  The  Railroad,  if  you  come  to  that,"  returned  Lyman, 
"  has  already  lodged  a  protest  against  the  new  rate/' 

Annixter  uttered  a  derisive  shout. 

"  A  protest !  That's  good,  that  is.  When  the  P.  and  S. 
W.  objects  to  rates  it  don't  'protest/  m'  son.  The  first 
you  hear  from  Mr.  Shelgrim  is  an  injunction  from  the 
courts  preventing  the  order  for  new  rates  from  taking 
effect.  By  the  Lord,"  he  cried  angrily,  leaping  to  his 
feet,  "  I  would  like  to  know  what  all  this  means,  too. 
Why  didn't  you  reduce  our  grain  rates?  What  did  we 
elect  you  for  ?  " 

"  Yes,  what  did  we  elect  you  for  ?  "  demanded  Oster- 
man  and  Gethings,  also  getting  to  their  feet. 

"  Order,  order,  gentlemen/'  cried  Magnus,  remem- 
bering the  duties  of  his  office  and  rapping  his  knuckles 
on  the  table.  "  This  meeting  has  been  allowed  to  de- 
generate too  far  already." 

"  You  elected  us,"  declared  Lyman  doggedly,  "  to 
make  an  average  ten  per  cent,  cut  on  grain  rates.  We 
have  done  it.  Only  because  you  don't  benefit  at  once, 
you  object.  It  makes  a  difference  whose  ox  is  gored,  it 
seems." 

"Lyman!" 

It  was  Magnus  who  spoke.  He  had  drawn  himself 
to  his  full  six  feet.  His  eyes  were  flashing  direct  into 
his  son's.  His  voice  rang  with  severity. 

"  Lyman,  what  does  this  mean  ?  " 

The  other  spread  out  his  hands. 

"  As  you  see,  sir.  We  have  done  our  best.  I  warned 
you  not  to  expect  too  much.  I  told  you  that  this  ques- 
tion of  transportation  was  difficult.  You  would  not  wish 
to  put  rates  so  low  that  the  action  would  amount  to  con- 
fiscation of  property." 

"  Why  did  you  not  lower  rates  in  the  valley  of  the 
San  Joaquin  ?  " 


A  Story  of  California  443 

"That  was  not  a  prominent  issue  in  the  affair,"  re- 
sponded Lyman,  carefully  emphasising  his  words.  "  I 
understand,  of  course,  it  was  to  be  approached  in  time. 
The  main  point  was  an  average  ten  per  cent,  reduction. 
Rates  will  be  lowered  in  the  San  Joaquin.  The  ranchers 
around  Bonneville  will  be  able  to  ship  to  Port  Costa  at 
equitable  rates,  but  so  radical  a  measure  as  that  cannot  be 
put  through  in  a  turn  of  the  hand.  We  must  study " 

"  You  knew  the  San  Joaquin  rate  was  an  issue," 
shouted  Annixter,  shaking  his  finger  across  the  table, 
"  What  do  we  men  who  backed  you  care  about  rates  up 
in  Del  Norte  and  Siskiyou  Counties?  Not  a  whoop  in 
hell.  It  was  the  San  Joaquin  rate  we  were  fighting  for, 
and  we  elected  you  to  reduce  that.  You  didn't  do  it  and 
you  don't  intend  to,  and,  by  the  Lord  Harry,  I  want  to 
know  why." 

"  You'll  know,  sir — "  began  Lyman. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  why/'  vociferated  Osterman.  "  I'll 
tell  you  why.  It's  because  we  have  been  sold  out.  It's 
because  the  P.  and  S.  W.  have  had  their  spoon  in  this 
boiling.  It's  because  our  commissioners  have  betrayed 
us.  It's  because  we're  a  set  of  damn  fool  farmers  and 
have  been  cinched  again." 

Lyman  paled  under  his  dark  skin  at  the  direct  attack. 
He  evidently  had  not  expected  this  so  soon.  For  the 
fraction  of  one  instant  he  lost  his  poise.  He  strove  to 
speak,  but  caught  his  breath,  stammering. 

"  What  have  you  to  say,  then  ?  "  cried  Harran,  who, 
until  now,  had  not  spoken. 

"  I  have  this  to  say,"  answered  Lyman,  making  head 
as  best  he  might,  "  that  this  is  no  proper  spirit  in  which 
to  discuss  business.  The  Commission  has  fulfilled  its 
obligations.  It  has  adjusted  rates  to  the  best  of  its 
ability.  We  have  been  at  work  for  two  months  on  the 
preparation  of  this  schedule " 


444  The  Octopus 

"  That's  a  lie,"  shouted  Annixter,  his  face  scarlet ; 
"  that's  a  lie.  That  schedule  was  drawn  in  the  offices  of 
the  Pacific  and  Southwestern  and  you  know  it.  It's  a 
scheme  of  rates  made  for  the  Railroad  and  by  the  Rail- 
road and  you  were  bought  over  to  put  your  name  to  it." 

There  was  a  concerted  outburst  at  the  words.  All  the 
men  in  the  room  were  on  their  feet,  gesticulating  and 
vociferating. 

"  Gentlemen,  gentlemen,"  cried  Magnus,  "  are  we 
schoolboys,  are  we  ruffians  of  the  street  ?  " 

"  We're  a  set  of  fool  farmers  and  we've  been  betrayed," 
cried  Osterman. 

"  Well,  what  have  you  to  say  ?  What  have  you  to 
say  ?  "  persisted  Harran,  leaning  across  the  table  toward 
his  brother.  "  For  God's  sake,  Lyman,  you've  got  some 
explanation." 

"  You've  misunderstood,"  protested  Lyman,  white  and 
trembling.  "  You've  misunderstood.  You've  expected 
too  much.  Next  year, — next  year, — soon  now,  the  Com- 
mission will  take  up  the — the  Commission  will  consider 
the  San  Joaquin  rate.  We've  done  our  best,  that  is  all." 

"Have  you,  sir?"  demanded  Magnus. 

The  Governor's  head  was  in  a  whirl ;  a  sensation, 
almost  of  faintness,  had  seized  upon  him.  Was  it  pos- 
sible ?  Was  it  possible  ? 

"  Have  you  done  your  best  ?  "  For  a  second  he  com- 
pelled Lyman's  eye.  The  glances  of  father  and  son 
met,  and,  in  spite  of  his  best  efforts,  Lyman's  eyes  wav- 
ered. He  began  to  protest  once  more,  explaining  the 
matter  over  again  from  the  beginning.  But  Magnus  did 
not  listen.  In  that  brief  lapse  of  time  he  was  convinced 
that  the  terrible  thing  had  happened,  that  the  unbeliev- 
able had  come  to  pass.  It  was  in  the  air.  Between  father 
and  son,  in  some  subtle  fashion,  the  truth  that  was  a  lie 
stood  suddenly  revealed.  But  even  then  Magnus  would 


A  Story  of  California  445 

not  receive  it.  Lyman  do  this !  His  son,  his  eldest  son, 
descend  to  this!  Once  more  and  for  the  last  time  he 
turned  to  him  and  in  his  voice  there  was  that  ring  that 
compelled  silence. 

"  Lyman,"  he  said,  "  I  adjure  you — I — I  demand  of 
you  as  you  are  my  son  and  an  honourable  man,  explain 
yourself.  What  is  there  behind  all  this  ?  It  is  no  longer 
as  Chairman  of  the  Committee  I  speak  to  you,  you  a 
member  of  the  Railroad  Commission.  It  is  your  father 
who  speaks,  and  I  address  you  as  my  son.  Do  you  un- 
derstand the  gravity  of  this  crisis;  do  you  realise  the 
responsibility  of  your  position;  do  you  not  see  the  im- 
portance of  this  moment?  Explain  yourself." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  explain." 

"You  have  not  reduced  rates  in  the  San  Joaquin? 
You  have  not  reduced  rates  between  Bonneville  and  tide- 
water?" 

"  I  repeat,  sir,  what  I  said  before.  An  average  ten 
per  cent,  cut " 

"  Lyman,  answer  me,  yes  or  no.  Have  you  reduced 
the  Bonneville  rate?" 

"  It  could  not  be  done  so  soon.     Give  us  time.     We 
» 

"  Yes  or  no !  By  God,  sir,  do  you  dare  equivocate  with 
me  ?  Yes  or  no ;  have  you  reduced  the  Bonneville  rate  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  And  answer  me,"  shouted  Harran,  leaning  far  across 
the  table,  "  answer  me.  Were  you  paid  by  the  Railroad 
to  leave  the  San  Joaquin  rate  untouched  ?  " 

Lyman,  whiter  than  ever,  turned  furious  upon  his 
brother. 

"  Don't  you  dare  put  that  question  to  me  again." 

"  No,  I  won't,"  cried  Harran,  "  because  I'll  tell  you  to 
your  villain's  face  that  you  were  paid  to  do  it." 

On  the  instant  the  clamour  burst  forth  afresh.     Still 


446  The  Octopus 

on  their  feet,  the  ranchers  had,  little  by  little,  worked 
around  the  table,  Magnus  alone  keeping  his  place.  The 
others  were  in  a  group  before  Lyman,  crowding  him,  as 
it  were,  to  the  wall,  shouting  into  his  face  with  menacing 
gestures.  The  truth  that  was  a  lie,  the  certainty  of  a 
trust  betrayed,  a  pledge  ruthlessly  broken,  was  plain  to 
every  one  of  them. 

"  By  the  Lord !  men  have  been  shot  for  less  than  this," 
cried  Osterman.  "  You've  sold  us  out,  you,  and  if  you 
ever  bring  that  dago  face  of  yours  on  a  level  with  mine 
again,  Til  slap  it." 

"  Keep  your  hands  off,"  exclaimed  Lyman  quickly,  the 
aggressiveness  of  the  cornered  rat  flaming  up  within 
him.  "  No  violence.  Don't  you  go  too  far." 

"  How  much  were  you  paid  ?  How  much  were  you 
paid?"  vociferated  Harran. 

"Yes,  yes,  what  was  your  price?"  cried  the  others. 
They  were  beside  themselves  with  anger;  their  words 
came  harsh  from  between  their  set  teeth-;  their  gestures 
were  made  with  their  fists  clenched. 

"  You  know  the  Commission  acted  in  good  faith,"  re- 
torted Lyman.  "  You  know  that  all  was  fair  and  above 
board." 

"Liar,"  shouted  Annixter;  "liar,  bribe-eater.  You 
were  bought  and  paid  for,"  and  with  the  words  his  arm 
seemed  almost  of  itself  to  leap  out  from  his  shoulder. 
Lyman  received  the  blow  squarely  in  the  face  and  the 
force  of  it  sent  him  staggering  backwards  toward  the 
wall.  He  tripped  over  his  valise  and  fell  half  way,  his 
back  supported  against  the  closed  door  of  the  room. 
Magnus  sprang  forward.  His  son  had  been  struck,  and 
the  instincts  of  a  father  rose  up  in  instant  protest;  rose 
for  a  moment,  then  forever  died  away  in  his  heart.  He 
checked  the  words  that  flashed  to  his  mind.  He  lowered 
his  upraised  arm.  No,  he  had  but  one  son.  The  poor, 


A  Story  of  California  447 

staggering  creature  with  the  fine  clothes,  white  face,  and 
blood-streaked  lips  was  no  longer  his.  A  blow  could  not 
dishonour  him  more  than  he  had  dishonoured  himself. 

But  Gethings,  the  older  man,  intervened,  pulling  An- 
nixter  back,  crying: 

"  Stop,  this  won't  do.     Not  before  his  father." 

"  I  am  no  father  to  this  man,  gentlemen,"  exclaimed 
Magnus.  "  From  now  on,  I  have  but  one  son.  You, 
sir,"  he  turned  to  Lyman,  "  you,  sir,  leave  my  house." 

Lyman,  his  handkerchief  to  his  lips,  his  smart  cravat 
in  disarray,  caught  up  his  hat  and  coat.  He  was  shaking 
with  fury,  his  protruding  eyes  were  blood-shot.  He 
swung  open  the  door. 

"  Ruffians,"  he  shouted  from  the  threshold,  "  ruffians, 
bullies.  Do  your  own  dirty  business  yourselves  after 
this.  I'm  done  with  you.  How  is  it,  all  of  a  sudden 
you  talk  about  honour  ?  How  is  it  that  all  at  once  you're 
so  clean  and  straight  ?  You  weren't  so  particular  at  Sac- 
ramento just  before  the  nominations.  How  was  the 
Board  elected?  I'm  a  bribe-eater,  am  I?  Is  it  any- 
worse  than  giving  a  bribe?  Ask  Magnus  Derrick  what 
he  thinks  about  that.  Ask  him  how  much  he  paid  the 
Democratic  bosses  at  Sacramento  to  swing  the  conven- 
tion." 

He  went  out,  slamming  the  door. 

Presley  followed.  The  whole  affair  made  him  sick  at 
heart,  filled  him  with  infinite  disgust,  infinite  weariness. 
He  wished  to  get  away  from  it  all.  He  left  the  dining- 
room  and  the  excited,  clamouring  men  behind  him  and 
stepped  out  on  the  porch  of  the  ranch  house,  closing  the 
door  behind  him.  Lyman  was  nowhere  in  sight.  Presley 
was  alone.  It  was  late,  and  after  the  lamp-heated  air 
of  the  dining-room,  the  coolness  of  the  night  was  deli- 
cious, and  its  vast  silence,  after  the  noise  and  fury  of 
the  committee  meeting,  descended  from  the  stars  like  a 


448  The  Octopus 

benediction.    Presley  stepped  to  the  edge  of  the  porch, 
looking  off  to  southward. 

And  there  before  him,  mile  after  mile,  illimitable,  cov- 
ering the  earth  from  horizon  to  horizon,  lay  the  Wheat. 
The  growth,  now  many  days  old,  was  already  high  from 
the  ground.  There  it  lay,  a  vast,  silent  ocean,  shimmer- 
ing a  pallid  green  under  the  moon  and  under  the  stars; 
a  mighty  force,  the  strength  of  nations,  the  life  of  the 
world.  There  in  the  night,  under  the  dome  of  the  sky, 
it  was  growing  steadily.  To  Presley's  mind,  the  scene 
in  the  room  he  had  just  left  dwindled  to  paltry  insignifi- 
cance before  this  sight.  Ah,  yes,  the  Wheat — it  was  over 
this  that  the  Railroad,  the  ranchers,  the  traitor  false  to 
his  trust,  all  the  members  of  an  obscure  conspiracy,  were 
wrangling.  As  if  human  agency  could  affect  this  colos- 
sal power !  What  were  these  heated,  tiny  squabbles,  this 
feverish,  small  bustle  of  mankind,  this  minute  swarming 
of  the  human  insect,  to  the  great,  majestic,  silent  ocean 
of  the  Wheat  itself!  Indifferent,  gigantic,  resistless,  it 
moved  in  its  appointed  grooves.  Men,  Liliputians,  gnats 
in  the  sunshine,  buzzed  impudently  in  their  tiny  battles, 
were  born,  lived  through  their  little  day,  died,  and  were 
forgotten;  while  the  Wheat,  wrapped  in  Nirvanic  calm. 
grew  steadily  under  the  night,  alone  with  the  stars  and 
with  God. 


Jack-rabbits  were  a  pest  that  year  and  Presley  occa- 
sionally found  amusement  in  hunting  them  with  Harran's 
half-dozen  greyhounds,  following  the  chase  on  horse- 
back. One  day,  between  two  and  three  months  after 
Lyman's  visit  to  Los  Muertos,  as  he  was  returning 
toward  the  ranch  house  from  a  distant  and  lonely  quarter 
of  Los  Muertos,  he  came  unexpectedly  upon  a  strange 
sight. 

Some  twenty  men,  Annixter's  and  Osterman's  tenants, 
and  small  ranchers  from  east  of  Guadalajara — all  mem- 
bers of  the  League — were  going  through  the  manual  of 
arms  under  Harran  Derrick's  supervision.  They  were 
all  equipped  with  new  Winchester  rifles.  Harran  carried 
one  of  these  himself  and  with  it  he  illustrated  the  various 
commands  he  gave.  As  soon  as  one  of  the  men  under 
his  supervision  became  more  than  usually  proficient,  he 
was  told  off  to  instruct  a  file  of  the  more  backward. 
After  the  manual  of  arms,  Harran  gave*the  command  to 
take  distance  as  skirmishers,  and  when  the  line  had 
opened  out  so  that  some  half-dozen  feet  intervened  be- 
tween each  man,  an  advance  was  made  across  the  field, 
the  men  stooping  low  and  snapping  the  hammers  of  their 
rifles  at  an  imaginary  enemy. 

The  League  had  its  agents  in  San  Francisco,  who 
watched  the  movements  of  the  Railroad  as  closely  as  was 
possible,  and  some  time  before  this,  Annixter  had  re- 
ceived word  that  the  Marshal  and  his  deputies  were 
coming  down  to  Bonneville  to  put  the  dummy  buyers  of 
his  ranch  in  possession.  The  report  proved  to  be  but  the 


450  The  Octopus 

first  of  many  false  alarms,  but  it  had  stimulate^  the 
League  to  unusual  activity,  and  some  three  or  fourtiun- 
dred  men  were  furnished  with  arms  and  from  time  to 
time  were  drilled  in  secret. 

Among  themselves,  the  ranchers  said  that  if  the  Rail- 
road managers  did  not  believe  they  were  terribly  in 
earnest  in  the  stand  they  had  taken,  they  were  making  a 
fatal  mistake. 

Harran  reasserted  this  statement  to  Presley  on  the 
way  home  to  the  ranch  house  that  same  day.  Harran 
had  caught  up  with  him  by  the  time  he  reached  the 
Lower  Road,  and  the  two  jogged  homeward  through 
the  miles  of  standing  wheat. 

"  They  may  jump  the  ranch,  Pres,"  he  said,  "  if  they 
try  hard  enough,  but  they  will  never  do  it  while  I  am 
alive.  By  the  way,"  he  added,  "  you  know  we  served 
notices  yesterday  upon  S.  Behrman  and  Cy.  Ruggles  to 
quit  the  country.  Of  course,  they  won't  do  it,  but  they 
won't  be  able  to  say  they  didn't  have  warning." 

About  an  hour  later,  the  two  reached  the  ranch  house, 
but  as  Harran  rode  up  the  driveway,  he  uttered  an 
exclamation. 

"  Hello,"  he  said,  "  something  is  up.  That's  Gensling- 
er's  buckboard.'* 

In  fact,  the  editor's  team  was  tied  underneath  the  shade 
of  a  giant  eucalyptus  tree  near  by.  Harran,  uneasy 
under  this  unexpected  visit  of  the  enemy's  friend,  dis- 
mounted without  stabling  his  horse,  and  went  at  once  to 
the  dining-room,  where  visitors  were  invariably  received. 
But  the  dining-room  was  empty,  and  his  mother  told 
him  that  Magnus  and  the  editor  were  in  the  "  office." 
Magnus  had  said  they  were  not  to  be  disturbed. 

Earlier  in  the  afternoon,  the  editor  had  driven  up  to 
the  porch  and  had  asked  Mrs.  Derrick,  whom  he  found 
reading  a  book  of  poems  on  the  porch,  if  he  could  see 


A  Story  of  California  451 

Magnus.  At  the  time,  the  Governor  had  gone  with 
Phelps  to  inspect  the  condition  of  the  young  wheat  on 
Hooven's  holding,  but  within  half  an  hour  he  returned, 
and  Genslinger  had  asked  him  for  a  "  few  moments'  talk 
in  private." 

The  two  went  into  the  "  office,"  Magnus  locking  the 
door  behind  him. 

"  Very  complete  you  are  here,  Governor,"  observed  the 
editor  in  his  alert,  jerky  manner,  his  black,  bead-like  eyes 
twinkling  around  the  room  from  behind  his  glasses. 
"  Telephone,  safe,  ticker,  account-books — well,  that's 
progress,  isn't  it?  Only  way  to  manage  a  big  ranch 
these  days.  But  the  day  of  the  big  ranch  is  over.  As 
the  land  appreciates  in  value,  the  temptation  to  sell  off 
small  holdings  will  be  too  strong.  And  then  the  small 
holding  can  be  cultivated  to  better  advantage.  I  shall 
have  an  editorial  on  that  some  day." 

"  The  cost  of  maintaining  a  number  of  small  holdings," 
said  Magnus,  indifferently,  "  is,  of  course,  greater  than  if 
they  were  all  under  one  management." 

"  That  may  be,  that  may  be,"  rejoined  the  other. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Genslinger  leaned  back  in 
his  chair  and  rubbed  a  knee.  Magnus,  standing  erect  in 
front  of  the  safe,  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

"  This  is  an  unfortunate  business,  Governor,"  began  the 
editor,  "  this  misunderstanding  between  the  ranchers  and 
the  Railroad.  I  wish  it  could  be  adjusted.  Here  are  two 
industries  that  must  be  in  harmony  with  one  another,  or 
we  all  go  to  pot." 

"  I  should  prefer  not  to  be  interviewed  on  the  subject, 
Mr.  Genslinger,"  said  Magnus. 

"  Oh,  no,  oh,  no.  Lord  love  you,  Governor,  I  don't 
want  to  interview  you.  We  all  know  how  you  stand." 

Again  there  was  a  long  silence.  Magnus  wondered 
what  this  little  man,  usually  so  garrulous,  could  want  of 


452  The  Octopus 

him.  At  length,  Genslinger  began  again.  He  did  not 
look  at  Magnus,  except  at  long  intervals. 

"  About  the  present  Railroad  Commission,"  he  re- 
marked. "  That  was  an  interesting  campaign  you  con- 
ducted in  Sacramento  and  San  Francisco." 

Magnus  held  his  peace,  his  hands  shut  tight.  Did  Gen- 
slinger know  of  Lyman's  disgrace?  Was  it  for  this  he 
had  come  ?  Would  the  story  of  it  be  the  leading  article 
in  to-morrow's  Mercury? 

"  An  interesting  campaign,"  repeated  Genslinger, 
slowly ;  "  a  very  interesting  campaign.  I  watched  it  with 
every  degree  of  interest.  I  saw  its  every  phase,  Mr. 
Derrick." 

"  The  campaign  was  not  without  its  interest,"  admitted 
Magnus. 

"  Yes,"  said  Genslinger,  still  more  deliberately,  "  and 
some  phases  of  it  were — more  interesting  than  others,  as, 
for  instance,  let  us  say  the  way  in  which  you — personally 
— secured  the  votes  of  certain  chairmen  of  delegations — 
need  I  particularise  further?  Yes,  those  men — the  way 
you  got  their  votes.  Now,  that  I  should  say,  Mr.  Der- 
rick, was  the  most  interesting  move  in  the  whole  game — 
to  you.  Hm,  curious,"  he  murmured,  musingly.  "  Let's 
see.  You  deposited  two  one-thousand  dollar  bills  and 
four  five-hundred  dollar  bills  in  a  box — three  hundred 
and  eight  was  the  number — in  a  box  in  the  Safety  Deposit 
Vaults  in  San  Francisco,  and  then — let's  see,  you  gave 
a  key  to  this  box  to  each  of  the  gentlemen  in  question, 
and  after  the  election  the  box  was  empty.  Now,  I  call 
that  interesting — curious,  because  it's  a  new,  safe,  and 
highly  ingenious  method  of  bribery.  How  did  you  hap- 
pen to  think  of  it,  Governor  ?  " 

"Do  you  know  what  you  are  doing,  sir?"  Magnus 
burst  forth.  "  Do  you  know  what  you  are  insinuating, 
here,  in  my  own  house  ?  " 


A  Story  of  California  453 

"  Why,  Governor,"  returned  the  editor,  blandly,  "  I'm 
not  insinuating  anything.  Fm  talking  about  what  I 
know" 

"  It's  a  lie." 

Genslinger  rubbed  his  chin  reflectively. 

"  Well/'  he  answered,  "  you  can  have  a  chance  to  prove 
it  before  the  Grand  Jury,  if  you  want  to." 

"  My  character  is  known  all  over  the  State/'  blustered 
Magnus.  "  My  politics  are  pure  politics.  My " 

"  No  one  needs  a  better  reputation  for  pure  politics 
than  the  man  who  sets  out  to  be  a  briber,"  interrupted 
Genslinger,  "  and  I  might  as  well  tell  you,  Governor,  that 
you  can't  shout  me  down.  I  can  put  my  hand  on  the  two 
chairmen  you  bought  before  it's  dark  to-day.  I've  had 
their  depositions  in  my  safe  for  the  last  six  weeks.  We 
could  make  the  arrests  to-morrow,  if  we  wanted.  Gov- 
ernor, you  sure  did  a  risky  thing  when  you  went  into 
that  Sacramento  fight,  an  awful  risky  thing.  Some  men 
can  afford  to  have  bribery  charges  preferred  against 
them,  and  it  don't  hurt  one  little  bit,  but  you — Lord,  it 
would  bust  you,  Governor,  bust  you  dead.  I  know  all 
about  the  whole  shananigan  business  from  A  to  Z,  and  if 
you  don't  believe  it — here/'  he  drew  a  long  strip  of  paper 
from  his  pocket,  "  here's  a  galley  proof  of  the  story." 

Magnus  took  it  in  his  hands.  There,  under  his  eyes> 
scare-headed,  double-leaded,  the  more  important  clauses 
printed  in  bold  type,  was  the  detailed  account  of  the 
"  deal "  Magnus  had  made  with  the  two  delegates.  It 
was  pitiless,  remorseless,  bald.  Every  statement  was  sub- 
stantiated, every  statistic  verified  with  Genslinger's 
meticulous  love  for  exactness.  Besides  all  that,  it  had  the 
ring  of  truth.  It  was  exposure,  ruin,  absolute  annihila- 
tion. 

"  That's  about  correct,  isn't  it  ?  "  commented  Gen- 
slinger, as  Derrick  finished  reading.  Magnus  did  not 


454  l^e  Octopus 

reply.  "  I  think  it  is  correct  enough,"  the  editor  con- 
tinued. "  But  I  thought  it  would  only  be  fair  to  you  to 
let  you  see  it  before  it  was  published." 

The  one  thought  uppermost  in  Derrick's  mind,  his  one 
impulse  of  the  moment  was,  at  whatever  cost,  to  preserve 
his  dignity,  not  to  allow  this  man  to  exult  in  the  sight  of 
one  quiver  of  weakness,  one  trace  of  defeat,  one  sug- 
gestion of  humiliation.  By  an  effort  that  put  all  his  iron 
rigidity  to  the  test,  he  forced  himself  to  look  straight  into 
Genslinger's  eyes. 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  he  observed,  handing  back  the 
proof,  "  upon  your  journalistic  enterprise.  Your  paper 
will  sell  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  as  I  want  to  publish  this  story," 
remarked  the  editor,  indifferently,  putting  away  the  gal- 
ley. "  I'm  just  like  that.  The  fun  for  me  is  running  a 
good  story  to  earth,  but  once  I've  got  it,  I  lose  interest. 
And,  then,  I  wouldn't  like  to  see  you — holding  the  posi- 
tion you  do,  President  of  the  League  and  a  leading  man 
of  the  county — I  wouldn't  like  to  see  a  story  like  this 
smash  you  over.  It's  worth  more  to  you  to  keep  it  out 
of  print  than  for  me  to  put  it  in.  I've  got  nothing  much 
to  gain  but  a  few  extra  editions,  but  you — Lord,  you 
would  lose  everything.  Your  committee  was  in  the  deal 
right  enough.  But  your  League,  all  the  San  Joaquin  Val- 
ley, everybody  in  the  State  believes  the  commissioners 
were  fairly  elected." 

"  Your  story,"  suddenly  exclaimed  Magnus,  struck 
with  an  idea,  "  will  be  thoroughly  discredited  just  so  soon 
as  the  new  grain  tariff  is  published.  I  have  means  of 
knowing  that  the  San  Joaquin  rate — the  issue  upon  which 
the  board  was  elected — is  not  to  be  touched.  Is  it  likely 
the  ranchers  would  secure  the  election  of  a  board  that 
plays  them  false  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we  know  all  about  that,"  answered  Genslinger, 


A  Story  of  California  455 

smiling.  "  You  thought  you  were  electing  Lyman  easily. 
You  thought  you  had  got  the  Railroad  to  walk  right 
into  your  trap.  You  didn't  understand  how  you  could 
pull  off  your  deal  so  easily.  Why,  Governor,  Lyman  was 
pledged  to  the  Railroad  two  years  ago.  He  was  the  one 
particular  man  the  corporation  wanted  for  commissioner. 
And  your  people  elected  him — saved  the  Railroad  all  the 
trouble  of  campaigning  for  him.  And  you  can't  make 
any  counter  charge  of  bribery  there.  No,  sir,  the  corpora- 
tion don't  use  swch  amateurish  methods  as  that.  Con- 
fidentially and  between  us  two,  all  that  the  Railroad  has 
done  for  Lyman,  in  order  to  attach  him  to  their  interests, 
is  to  promise  to  back  him  politically  in  the  next  cam- 
paign for  Governor.  It's  too  bad/'  he  continued,  drop- 
ping his  voice,  and  changing  his  position.  "  It  really  is 
too  bad  to  see  good  men  trying  to  bunt  a  stone  wall  over 
with  their  bare  heads.  You  couldn't  have  won  at  any 
stage  of  the  game.  I  wish  I  could  have  talked  to  you 
and  your  friends  before  you  went  into  that  Sacramento 
fight.  I  could  have  told  you  then  how  little  chance  you 
had.  When  will  you  people  realise  that  you  can't  buck 
against  the  Railroad  ?  Why,  Magnus,  it's  like  me  going 
out  in  a  paper  boat  and  shooting  peas  at  a  battleship." 

"  Is  that  all  you  wished  to  see  me  about,  Mr.  Gen- 
slinger  ?  "  remarked  Magnus,  bestirring  himself.  "  I  am 
rather  occupied  to-day." 

"  Well,"  returned  the  other,  "  you  know  what  the  pub- 
lication of  this  article  would  mean  for  you."  He  paused 
again,  took  off  his  glasses,  breathed  on  them,  polished  the 
lenses  with  his  handkerchief  and  readjusted  them  on  his 
nose.  "  I've  been  thinking,  Governor,"  he  began  again, 
with  renewed  alertness,  and  quite  irrelevantly,  "  of  en- 
larging the  scope  of  the  '  Mercury.'  You  see,  I'm  mid- 
way between  the  two  big  centres  of  the  State,  San  Fran- 
cisco and  Los  Angeles,  and  I  want  to  extend  the  '  Mer- 


456  The  Octopus 

cury's  '  sphere  of  influence  as  far  up  and  down  the  valley 
as  I  can.  I  want  to  illustrate  the  paper.  You  see,  if  I  had 
a  photo-engraving  plant  of  my  own,  I  could  do  a  good 
deal  of  outside  jobbing  as  well,  and  the  investment  would 
pay  ten  per  cent.  But  it  takes  money  to  make  money.  I 
wouldn't  want  to  put  in  any  dinky,  one-horse  affair.  I 
want  a  good  plant.  I've  been  figuring  out  the  business. 
Besides  the  plant,  there  would  be  the  expense  of  a  high 
grade  paper.  Can't  print  half-tones  on  anything  but 
coated  paper,  and  that  costs.  Well,  what  with  this  and 
with  that  and  running  expenses  till  the  thing  began  to 
pay,  it  would  cost  me  about  ten  thousand  dollars,  and  I 
was  wondering  if,  perhaps,  you  couldn't  see  your  way 
clear  to  accommodating  me." 

"Ten  thousand ?" 

"  Yes.  Say  five  thousand  down,  and  the  balance 
within  sixty  days." 

Magnus,  for  the  moment  blind  to  what  Genslinger 
had  in  mind,  turned  on  him  in  astonishment. 

"  Why,  man,  what  security  could  you  give  me  for  such 
an  amount  ?  " 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,"  answered  the  editor,  "I 
hadn't  thought  much  about  securities.  In  fact,  I  believed 
you  would  see  how  greatly  it  was  to  your  advantage  to 
talk  business  with  me.  You  see,  I'm  not  going  to  print 
this  article  about  you,  Governor,  and  I'm  not  going  to  let 
it  get  out  so  as  any  one  else  can  print  it,  and  it  seems  to 
me  that  one  good  turn  deserves  another.  You  under- 
stand?" 

Magnus  understood.  An  overwhelming  desire  sud- 
denly took  possession  of  him  to  grip  this  blackmailer  by 
the  throat,  to  strangle  him  where  he  stood ;  or,  if  not,  at 
least  to  turn  upon  him  with  that  old-time  terrible  anger, 
before  which  whole  conventions  had  once  cowered.  But 
in  the  same  moment  the  Governor  realised  this  was  not 


A  Story  of  California  457 

to  be.  Only  its  righteousness  had  made  his  wrath  ter- 
rible ;  only  the  justice  of  his  anger  had  made  him  feared. 
Now  the  foundation  was  gone  from  under  his  feet;  he 
had  knocked  it  away  himself.  Three  times  feeble  was 
he  whose  quarrel  was  unjust.  Before  this  country  editor, 
this  paid  speaker  of  the  Railroad,  he  stood,  convicted. 
The  man  had  him  at  his  mercy.  The  detected  briber 
could  not  resent  an  insult.  Genslinger  rose,  smoothing 
his  hat. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  of  course,  you  want  time  to  think  it 
over,  and  you  can't  raise  money  like  that  on  short  notice. 
I'll  wait  till  Friday  noon  of  this  week.  We  begin  to 
set  Saturday's  paper  at  about  four,  Friday  afternoon, 
and  the  forms  are  locked  about  two  in  the  morning.  I 
hope,"  he  added,  turning  back  at  the  door  of  the  room, 
"  that  you  won't  find  anything  disagreeable  in  your  Sat- 
urday morning  '  Mercury,'  Mr.  Derrick." 

He  went  out,  closing  the  door  behind  him,  and  in  a 
moment,  Magnus  heard  the  wheels  of  his  buckboard  grat- 
ing on  the  driveway. 

The  following  morning  brought  a  letter  to  Magnus 
from  Gethings,  of  the  San  Pueblo  ranch,  which  was  situ- 
ated very  close  to  Visalia.  The  letter  was  to  the  effect 
that  all  around  Visalia,  upon  the  ranches  affected  by  the 
regrade  of  the  Railroad,  men  were  arming  and  drilling, 
and  that  the  strength  of  the  League  in  that  quarter  was 
undoubted.  "  But  to  refer,"  continued  the  letter,  "  to  a 
most  painful  recollection.  You  will,  no  doubt,  remember 
that,  at  the  close  of  our  last  committee  meeting,  specific 
charges  were  made  as  to  fraud  in  the  nomination  and 
election  of  one  of  our  commissioners,  emanating,  most 
unfortunately,  from  the  commissioner  himself.  These 
charges,  my  dear  Mr.  Derrick,  were  directed  at  yourself. 
How  the  secrets  of  the  committee  have  been  noised  about, 
I  cannot  understand.  You  may  be,  of  course,  assured  of 


458  The  Octopus 

my  own  unquestioning  confidence  and  loyalty.  However, 
I  regret  exceedingly  to  state  not  only  that  the  rumour  of 
the  charges  referred  to  above  is  spreading  in  this  district, 
but  that  also  they  are  made  use  of  by  the  enemies  of  the 
League.  It  is  to  be  deplored  that  some  of  the  Leaguers 
themselves — you  know,  we  number  in  our  ranks  many 
small  farmers,  ignorant  Portuguese  and  foreigners — have 
listened  to  these  stories  and  have  permitted  a  feeling  of 
uneasiness  to  develop  among  them.  Even  though  it  were 
admitted  that  fraudulent  means  had  been  employed  in  the 
elections,  which,  of  course,  I  personally  do  not  admit,  I 
do  not  think  it  would  make  very  much  difference  in  the 
confidence  which  the  vast  majority  of  the  Leaguers  repose 
in  their  chiefs.  Yet  we  have  so  insisted  upon  the  probity 
of  our  position  as  opposed  to  Railroad  chicanery,  that  I 
believe  it  advisable  to  quell  this  distant  suspicion  at  once ; 
to  publish  a  denial  of  these  rumoured  charges  would  only 
be  to  give  them  too  much  importance.  However,  can  you 
not  write  me  a  letter,  stating  exactly  how  the  campaign 
was  conducted,  and  the  commission  nominated  and 
elected?  I  could  show  this  to  some  of  the  more  disaf- 
fected, and  it  would  serve  to  allay  all  suspicion  on  the 
instant.  I  think  it  would  be  well  to  write  as  though  the 
initiative  came,  not  from  me,  but  from  yourself,  ignoring 
this  present  letter.  I  offer  this  only  as  a  suggestion,  and 
will  confidently  endorse  any  decision  you  may  arrive  at." 

The  letter  closed  with  renewed  protestations  of  con- 
fidence. 

Magnus  was  alone  when  he  read  this.  He  put  it  care- 
fully away  in  the  filing  cabinet  in  his  office,  and  wiped 
the  sweat  from  his  forehead  and  face.  He  stood  for  one 
moment,  his  hands  rigid  at  his  sides,  his  fists  clinched. 

"  This  is  piling  up,"  he  muttered,  looking  blankly  at 
the  opposite  wall.  "  My  God,  this  is  piling  up.  What  am 
I  to  do?" 


A  Story  of  California  459 

Ah,  the  bitterness  of  unavailing  regret,  the  anguish  of 
compromise  with  conscience,  the  remorse  of  a  bad  deed 
done  in  a  moment  of  excitement.  Ah,  the  humiliation  of 
detection,  the  degradation  of  being  caught,  caught  like  a 
schoolboy  pilfering  his  fellows'  desks,  and,  worse  than 
all,  worse  than  all,  the  consciousness  of  lost  self-respect, 
the  knowledge  of  a  prestige  vanishing,  a  dignity  im- 
paired, knowledge  that  the  grip  which  held  a  multitude 
in  check  was  trembling,  that  control  was  wavering,  that 
command  was  being  weakened.  Then  the  little  tricks  to 
deceive  the  crowd,  the  little  subterfuges,  the  little  pre- 
tences that  kept  up  appearances,  the  lies,  the  bluster,  the 
pose,  the  strut,  the  gasconade,  where  once  was  iron  au- 
thority; the  turning  of  the  head  so  as  not  to  see  that 
which  could  not  be  prevented ;  the  suspicion  of  suspicion, 
the  haunting  fear  of  the  Man  on  the  Street,  the  uneasi- 
ness of  the  direct  glance,  the  questioning  as  to  motives — 
why  had  this  been  said,  what  was  meant  by  that  word, 
that  gesture,  that  glance? 

Wednesday  passed,  and  Thursday.  Magnus  kept  to 
himself,  seeing  no  visitors,  avoiding  even  his  family. 
How  to  break  through  the  mesh  of  the  net,  how  to  regain 
the  old  position,  how  to  prevent  discovery?  If  there  were 
only  some  way,  some  vast,  superhuman  effort  by  which 
he  could  rise  in  his  old  strength  once  more,  crushing 
Lyman  with  one  hand,  Genslinger  with  the  other,  and  for 
one  more  moment,  the  last,  to  stand  supreme  again,  in- 
domitable, the  leader ;  then  go  to  his  death,  triumphant  at 
the  end,  his  memory  untarnished,  his  fame  undimmed. 
But  the  plague-spot  was  in  himself,  knitted  forever  into 
the  fabric  of  his  being.  Though  Genslinger  should  be  si- 
lenced, though  Lyman  should  be  crushed,  though  even 
the  League  should  overcome  the  Railroad,  though  he 
should  be  the  acknowledged  leader  of  a  resplendent  vic- 
tory, yet  the  plague-spot  would  remain.  There  was  no 


460  The  Octopus 

success  for  him  now.  However  conspicuous  the  outward 
achievement,  he,  he  himself,  Magnus  Derrick,  had  failed, 
miserably  and  irredeemably. 

Petty,  material  complications  intruded,  sordid  consid- 
erations. Even  if  Genslinger  was  to  be  paid,  where  was 
the  money  to  come  from  ?  His  legal  battles  with  the  Rail- 
road, extending  now  over  a  period  of  many  years,  had 
cost  him  dear ;  his  plan  of  sowing  all  of  Los  Muertos  to 
wheat,  discharging  the  tenants,  had  proved  expensive,  the 
campaign  resulting  in  Lyman's  election  had  drawn  heav- 
ily upon  his  account.  All  along  he  had  been  relying  upon 
a  "  bonanza  crop  "  to  reimburse  him.  It  was  not  believ- 
able that  the  Railroad  would  "  jump  "  Los  Muertos,  but 
if  this  should  happen,  he  would  be  left  without  re- 
sources. Ten  thousand  dollars !  Could  he  raise  the 
amount  ?  Possibly.  But  to  pay  it  out  to  a  blackmailer ! 
To  be  held  up  thus  in  road-agent  fashion,  without  a  sin- 
gle means  of  redress!  Would  it  not  cripple  him  finan- 
cially? Genslinger  could  do  his  worst.  He,  Magnus, 
would  brave  it  out.  Was  not  his  character  above  sus- 
picion ? 

Was  it  ?  This  letter  of  Gethings's.  Already  the  mur- 
mur of  uneasiness  made  itself  heard.  Was  this  not  the 
thin  edge  of  the  wedge?  How  the  publication  of  Gen- 
slinger's  btory  would  drive  it  home!  How  the  spark  of 
suspicion  would  flare  into  the  blaze  of  open  accusation ! 
There  would  be  investigations.  Investigation !  There 
was  terror  in  the  word.  He  could  not  stand  investiga- 
tion. Magnus  groaned  aloud,  covering  his  head  with  his 
clasped  hands.  Briber,  corrupter  of  government,  ballot- 
box  stuffer,  descending  to  the  level  of  back-room  politi- 
cians, of  bar-room  heelers,  he,  Magnus  Derrick,  statesman 
of  the  old  school,  Roman  in  his  iron  integrity,  abandon- 
ing a  career  rather  than  enter  the  "  new  politics,"  had,  in 
one  moment  of  weakness,  hazarding  all,  even  honour,  on 


A  Story  of  California  461 

a  single  stake,  taking  great  chances  to  achieve  great  re- 
sults, swept  away  the  work  of  a  lifetime. 

Gambler  that  he  was,  he  had  at  last  chanced  his  highest 
stake,  his  personal  honour,  in  the  greatest  game  of  his 
life,  and  had  lost. 

It  was  Presley's  morbidly  keen  observation  that  first 
noticed  the  evidence  of  a  new  trouble  in  the  Governor's 
face  and  manner.  Presley  was  sure  that  Lyman's  defec- 
tion had  not  so  upset  him.  The  morning  after  the  com- 
mittee meeting,  Magnus  had  called  Harran  and  Annie 
Derrick  into  the  office,  and,  after  telling  his  wife  of  Ly- 
man's  betrayal,  had  forbidden  either  of  them  to  mention 
his  name  again.  His  attitude  towards  his  prodigal  son 
was  that  of  stern,  unrelenting  resentment.  But  now, 
Presley  could  not  fail  to  detect  traces  of  a  more  deep- 
seated  travail.  Something  was  in  the  wind.  The  times 
were  troublous.  What  next  was  about  to  happen  ?  What 
fresh  calamity  impended  ? 

One  morning,  toward  the  very  end  of  the  week,  Pres- 
ley woke  early  in  his  small,  white-painted  iron  bed.  He 
hastened  to  get  up  and  dress.  There  was  much  to  be 
done  that  day.  Until  late  the  night  before,  he  had  been 
at  work  on  a  collection  of  some  of  his  verses,  gathered 
from  the  magazines  in  which  they  had  first  appeared. 
Presley  had  received  a  liberal  offer  for  the  publication  of 
these  verses  in  book  form.  "  The  Toilers  "  was  to  be 
included  in  this  book,  and,  indeed,  was  to  give  it  its  name 
— "  The  Toilers  and  Other  Poems."  Thus  it  was  that, 
until  the  previous  midnight,  he  had  been  preparing  the 
collection  for  publication,  revising,  annotating,  arranging. 
The  book  was  to  be  sent  off  that  morning. 

But  also  Presley  had  received  a  typewritten  note  from 
Annixter,  inviting  him  to  Quien  Sabe  that  same  day. 
Annixter  explained  that  it  was  Hilma's  birthday,  and 
that  he  had  planned  a  picnic  on  the  high  ground  of  his 


462  The  Octopus 

ranch,  at  the  headwaters  of  Broderson  Creek,.  They  were 
to  go  in  the  carry-all,  Hilma,  Presley,  Mrs.  Dyke,  Sidney, 
and  himself,  and  were  to  make  a  day  of  it.  They  would 
leave  Quien  Sabe  at  ten  in  the  morning.  Presley  had  at 
once  resolved  to  go.  He  was  immensely  fond  of  Anmx- 
ter — more  so  than  ever  since  his  marriage  with  Hilma 
and  the  astonishing  transformation  of  his  character. 
Hilma,  as  well,  was  delightful  as  Mrs.  Annixter;  and 
Mrs.  Dyke  and  the  little  tad  had  always  been  his  friends. 
He  would  have  a  good  time. 

But  nobody  was  to  go  into  Bonneville  that  morning 
with  the  mail,  and  if  he  wished  to  send  his  manuscript, 
he  would  have  to  take  it  in  himself.  He  had  resolved  to 
do  this,  getting  an  early  start,  and  going  on  horseback 
to  Quien  Sabe,  by  way  of  Bonneville. 

It  was  barely  six  o'clock  when  Presley  sat  down  to 
his  coffee  and  eggs  in  the  dining-room  of  Los  Muertos. 
The  day  promised  to  be  hot,  and  for  the  first  time,  Pres- 
ley had  put  on  a  new  khaki  riding  suit,  very  English- 
looking,  though  in  place  of  the  regulation  top-boots,  he 
wore  his  laced  knee-boots,  with  a  great  spur  on  the  left 
heel.  Harran  joined  him  at  breakfast,  in  his  working 
clothes  of  blue  canvas.  He  was  bound  for  the  irrigating 
ditch  to  see  how  the  work  was  getting  on  there. 

"  How  is  the  wheat  looking?  "  asked  Presley. 

"  Bully/'  answered  the  other,  stirring  his  coffee.  "  The 
Governor  has  had  his  ususal  luck.  Practically,  every  acre 
of  the  ranch  was  sown  to  wheat,  and  everywhere  the 
stand  is  good.  I  was  over  on  Two,  day  before  yesterday, 
and  if  nothing  happens,  I  believe  it  will  go  thirty  sacks  to 
the  acre  there.  Cutter  reports  that  there  are  spots  on 
Four  where  we  will  get  forty-two  or  three.  Hooven,  too, 
brought  up  some  wonderful  fine  ears  for  me  to  look  at. 
The  grains  were  just  beginning  to  show.  Some  of  the 
ears  carried  twenty  grains.  That  means  nearly  forty 


A  Story  of  California  463 

bushels  of  wheat  to  every  acre.  I  call  it  a  bonanza 
year." 

"  Have  you  got  any  mail  ?  "  said  Presley,  rising.  "  I'm 
going  into  town." 

Harran  shook  his  head,  and  took  himself  away,  and 
Presley  went  down  to  the  stable-corral  to  get  his  pony. 

As  he  rode  out  of  the  stable-yard  and  passed  by  the 
ranch  house,  on  the  driveway,  he  was  surprised  to  see 
Magnus  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  porch. 

"  Good  morning,  Governor,"  called  Presley.  "  Aren't 
you  up  pretty  early  ?  " 

"  Good  morning,  Pres,  my  boy."  The  Governor  came 
forward  and,  putting  his  hand  on  the  pony's  withers, 
walked  along  by  his  side. 

"Going  to  town,  Pres  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir.    Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Governor?  " 

Magnus  drew  a  sealed  envelope  from  his  pocket. 

"  I  wish  you  would  drop  in  at  the  office  of  the  Mercury 
for  me,"  he  said,  "  and  see  Mr.  Genslinger  personally,  and 
give  him  this  envelope.  It  is  a  package  of  papers,  but 
they  involve  a  considerable  sum  of  money,  and  you  must 
be  careful  of  them.  A  few  years  ago,  when  our  enmity 
was  not  so  strong,  Mr.  Genslinger  and  I  had  some  busi- 
ness dealings  with  each  other.  I  thought  it  as  well  just 
now,  considering  that  we  are  so  openly  opposed,  to  ter- 
minate the  whole  affair,  and  break  off  relations.  We 
came  to  a  settlement  a  few  days  ago.  These  are  the 
final  papers.  They  must  be  given  to  him  in  person,  Pres- 
ley. You  understand." 

Presley  cantered  on,  turning  into  the  county  road, 
and  holding  northward  by  the  mammoth  watering  tank 
and  Broderson's  popular  windbreak.  As  he  passed  Cara- 
her's,  he  saw  the  saloon-keeper  in  the  doorway  of  his  place, 
and  waved  him  a  salutation  which  the  other  returned. 

By  degrees,  Presley  had  come  to  consider  Caraher  in 


464  The  Octopus 

a  more  favourable  light.  He  found,  to  his  immense  aston- 
ishment, that  Caraher  knew  something  of  Mill  and  Ba- 
kounin,  not,  however,  from  their  books,  but  from  ex- 
tracts and  quotations  from  their  writings,  reprinted  in  the 
anarchistic  journals  to  which  he  subscribed.  More  than 
once,  the  two  had  held  long  conversations,  and  from 
Caraher's  own  lips,  Presley  heard  the  terrible  story  of  the 
death  of  his  wife,  who  had  been  accidentally  killed  by 
Pinkertons  during  a  "  demonstration "  of  strikers.  It 
invested  the  saloon-keeper,  in  Presley's  imagination,  with 
all  the  dignity  of  the  tragedy.  He  could  not  blame 
Caraher  for  being  a  "  red."  He  even  wondered  how  it 
was  the  saloon-keeper  had  not  put  his  theories  into  prac- 
tice, and  adjusted  his  ancient  wrong  with  his  "  six  inches 
of  plugged  gas-pipe."  Presley  began  to  conceive  of  the 
man  as  a  "  character." 

"  You  wait,  Mr.  Presley,"  the  saloon-keeper  had  once 
said,  when  Presley  had  protested  against  his  radical  ideas. 
"'  You  don't  know  the  Railroad  yet.  Watch  it  and  its 
doings  long  enough,  and  you'll  come  over  to  my  way  of 
thinking,  too." 

It  was  about  half-past  seven  when  Presley  reached 
Bonneville.  The  business  part  of  the  town  was  as  yet 
hardly  astir ;  he  despatched  his  manuscript,  and  then  hur- 
ried to  the  office  of  the  "  Mercury."  Genslinger,  as  he 
feared,  had  not  yet  put  in  appearance,  but  the  janitor  of 
the  building  gave  Presley  the  address  of  the  editor's 
residence,  and  it  was  there  he  found  him  in  the  act  of 
sitting  down  to  breakfast.  Presley  was  hardly  courteous 
to  the  little  man,  and  abruptly  refused  his  offer  of  a  drink. 
He  delivered  Magnus's  envelope  to  him  and  departed. 

It  had  occurred  to  him  that  it  would  not  do  to  present 
himself  at  Quien  Sabe  on  Hilma's  birthday,  empty- 
handed,  and,  on  leaving  Genslinger's  house,  he  turned 
his  pony's  head  toward  the  business  part  of  the  town 


A  Story  of  California  465 

again  pulling  up  in  front  of  the  jeweller's,  just  as  the  clerk 
was  taking  down  the  shutters. 

At  the  jeweller's,  he  purchased  a  little  brooch  for  Hilma, 
and  at  the  cigar  stand  in  the  lobby  of  the  Yosemite 
House,  a  box  of  superfine  cigars,  which,  when  it  was  too 
late,  he  realised  that  the  master  of  Quien  Sabe  would 
never  smoke,  holding,  as  he  did,  with  defiant  inconsis- 
tency, to  miserable  weeds,  black,  bitter,  and  flagrantly 
doctored,  which  he  bought,  three  for  a  nickel,  at 
Guadalajara. 

Presley  arrived  at  Quien  Sabe  nearly  half  an  hour  be- 
hind the  appointed  time;  but,  as  he  had  expected,  the 
party  were  in  no  way  ready  to  start.  The  carry-all,  its 
horses  covered  with  white  fly-nets,  stood  under  a  tree 
near  the  house,  young  Vacca  dozing  on  the  seat.  Hilma 
and  Sidney,  the  latter  exuberant  with  a  gayety  that  all  but 
brought  the  tears  to  Presley's  eyes,  were  making  sand- 
wiches on  the  back  porch.  Mrs.  Dyke  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen,  and  Annixter  was  shaving  himself  in  his  bedroom. 

This  latter  put  a  half-lathered  face  out  of  the  window 
as  Presley  cantered  through  the  gate,  and  waved  his 
razor  with  a  beckoning  motion. 

"  Come  on  in,  Pres,"  he  cried.  "  Nobody's  ready  yet. 
You're  hours  ahead  of  time." 

Presley  came  into  the  bedroom,  his  huge  spur  clinking 
on  the  straw  matting.  Annixter  was  without  coat,  vest, 
or  collar,  his  blue  silk  suspenders  hung  in  loops  over 
either  hip,  his  hair  was  disordered,  the  crown  lock  stiffer 
than  ever. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  old  boy,"  he  announced,  as  Presley 
came  in.  "  No,  don't  shake  hands,  I'm  all  lather.  Here, 
find  a  chair,  will  you?  I  won't  be  long/' 

"  I  thought  you  said  ten  o'clock,"  observed  Presley, 
sitting  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"  Well,  I  did,  but " 

30 


466  The  Octopus 

"  But,  then  again,  in  a  way,  you  didn't,  hey  ? "  his 
friend  interrupted. 

Annixter  grunted  good-humouredly,  and  turned  to 
strop  his  razor.  Presley  looked  with  suspicious  disfa- 
vour at  his  suspenders. 

"  Why  is  it,"  he  observed,  "  that  as  soon  as  a  man  is 
about  to  get  married,  he  buys  himself  pale  blue  sus- 
penders, silk  ones?  Think  of  it.  You,  Buck  Annixter, 
with  sky-blue,  silk  suspenders.  It  ought  to  be  a  strap 
and  a  nail." 

"  Old  fool/'  observed  Annixter,  whose  repartee  was  the 
heaving  of  brick  bats.  "  Say,"  he  continued,  holding  the 
razor  from  his  face,  and  jerking  his  head  over  his 
shoulder,  while  he  looked  at  Presley's  reflection  in  his 
mirror ;  "  say,  look  around.  Isn't  this  a  nifty  little  room  ? 
We  refitted  the  whole  house,  you  know.  Notice  she's  all 
painted  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  looking  around,"  answered  Presley, 
sweeping  the  room  with  a  series  of  glances.  He  forebore 
criticism.  Annixter  was  so  boyishly  proud  of  the  effect 
that  it  would  have  been  unkind  to  have  undeceived  him. 
Presley  looked  at  the  marvellous,  department-store  bed 
of  brass,  with  its  brave,  gay  canopy ;  the  mill-made  wash- 
stand,  with  its  pitcher  and  bowl  of  blinding  red  and  green 
china,  the  straw-framed  lithographs  of  symbolic  female 
figures  against  the  multi-coloured,  new  wall-paper;  the 
inadequate  spindle  chairs  of  white  and  gold ;  the  sphere  of 
tissue  paper  hanging  from  the  gas  fixture,  and  the  plumes 
of  pampas  grass  tacked  to  the  wall  at  artistic  angles,  and 
overhanging  two  astonishing  oil  paintings,  in  dazzling 
golden  frames. 

"  Say,  how  about  those  paintings,  Pres  ?  "  inquired  An- 
nixter a  little  uneasily.  "  I  don't  know  whether  they're 
good  or  not.  They  were  painted  by  a  three-fingered 
Chinaman  in  Monterey,  and  I  got  the  lot  for  thirty 


A  Story  of  California  467 

dollars,  frames  thrown  in.  Why,  I  think  the  frames  alone 
are  worth  thirty  dollars." 

"Well,  so  do  I,"  declared  Presley.  He  hastened  to 
change  the  subject. 

"  Buck,"  he  said,  "  I  hear  you've  brought  Mrs.  Dyke 
and  Sidney  to  live  with  you.  You  know,  I  think  that's 
rather  white  of  you." 

"  Oh,  rot,  Pres,"  muttered  Annixter,  turning  abruptly 
to  his  shaving. 

"  And  you  can't  fool  me,  either,  old  man,"  Presley  con- 
tinued. "  You're  giving  this  picnic  as  much  for  Mrs. 
Dyke  and  the  little  tad  as  you  are  for  your  wife,  just  to 
cheer  them  up  a  bit." 

"  Oh,  pshaw,  you  make  me  sick." 

"  Well,  that's  the  right  thing  to  do,  Buck,  and  I'm  as 
glad  for  your  sake  as  I  am  for  theirs.  There  was  a  time 
when  you  would  have  let  them  all  go  to  grass,  and  never 
so  much  as  thought  of  them.  I  don't  want  to  seem  to  be 
officious,  but  you've  changed  for  the  better,  old  man, 
and  I  guess  I  know  why.  She — "  Presley  caught  his 
friend's  eye,  and  added  gravely,  "  She's  a  good  woman, 
Buck." 

Annixter  turned  around  abruptly,  his  face  flushing 
under  its  lather. 

"  Pres,"  he  exclaimed,  "  she's  made  a  man  of  me.  I 
was  a  machine  before,  and  if  another  man,  or  woman,  or 
child  got  in  my  way,  I  rode  'em  down,  and  I  never 
dreamed  of  anybody  else  but  myself.  But  as  soon  as  I 
woke  up  to  the  fact  that  I  really  loved  her,  why,  it  was 
glory  hallelujah  all  in  a  minute,  and,  in  a  way,  I  kind  of 
loved  everybody  then,  and  wanted  to  be  everybody's 
friend.  And  I  began  to  see  that  a  fellow  can't  live  for 
himself  any  more  than  he  can  live  by  himself.  He's  got 
to  think  of  others.  If  he's  got  brains,  he's  got  to  think 
for  the  poor  ducks  that  haven't  'em,  and  not  give  'em  a 


468  The  Octopus 

boot  in  the  backsides  because  they  happen  to  be  stupid ; 
and  if  he's  got  money,  he's  got  to  help  those  that  are 
busted,  and  if  he's  got  a  house,  he's  got  to  think  of  those 
that  ain't  got  anywhere  to  go.  Fve  got  a  whole  lot  of 
ideas  since  I  began  to  love  Hilma,  and  just  as  soon  as  I 
can,  I'm  going  to  get  in  and  help  people,  and  I'm  going 
to  keep  to  that  idea  the  rest  of  my  natural  life.  That 
ain't  much  of  a  religion,  but  it's  the  best  I've  got,  and 
Henry  Ward  Beecher  couldn't  do  any  more  than  that. 
And  it's  all  come  about  because  of  Hilma,  and  because 
we  cared  for  each  other/' 

Presley  jumped  up,  and  caught  Annixter  about  the 
shoulders  with  one  arm,  gripping  his  hand  hard.  This 
absurd  figure,  with  dangling  silk  suspenders,  lathered 
chin,  and  tearful  eyes,  seemed  to  be  suddenly  invested 
with  true  nobility.  Beside  this  blundering  struggle  to  do 
right,  to  help  his  fellows,  Presley's  own  vague  schemes, 
glittering  systems  of  reconstruction,  collapsed  to  ruin, 
and  he  himself,  with  all  his  refinement,  with  all  his 
poetry,  culture,  and  education,  stood,  a  bungler  at  the 
world's  workbench. 

"  You're  all  right,  old  man,"  he  exclaimed,  unable  to 
think  of  anything  adequate.  "  You're  all  right.  That's 
the  way  to  talk,  and  here,  by  the  way,  I  brought  you  a 
box  of  cigars." 

Annixter  stared  as  Presley  laid  the  box  on  the  edge  of 
the  washstand. 

"  Old  fool,"  he  remarked,  "  what  in  hell  did  you  do 
that  for?" 

"  Oh,  just  for  fun." 

"  I  suppose  they're  rotten  stinkodoras,  or  you  wouldn't 
give  'em  away." 

"  This  cringing  gratitude — "  Presley  began. 

"  Shut  up,"  shouted  Annixter,  and  the  incident  was 
closed. 


A  Story  of  California  469 

Annixter  resumed  his  shaving,  and  Presley  lit  a 
cigarette. 

"  Any  news  from  Washington  ?  "  he  queried. 

"  Nothing  that's  any  good,"  grunted  Annixter. 
"  Hello,"  he  added,  raising  his  head,  "  there's  somebody 
in  a  hurry  for  sure." 

The  noise  of  a  horse  galloping  so  fast  that  the  hoof- 
beats  sounded  in  one  uninterrupted  rattle,  abruptly  made 
itself  heard.  The  noise  was  coming  from  the  direction  of 
the  road  that  led  from  the  Mission  to  Quien  Sabe.  With 
incredible  swiftness,  the  hoof-beats  drew  nearer.  There 
was  that  in  their  sound  which  brought  Presley  to  his  feet. 
Annixter  threw  open  the  window. 

"  Runaway,"  exclaimed  Presley. 

Annixter,  with  thoughts  of  the  Railroad,  and  the 
"jumping"  of  the  ranch,  flung  his  hand  to  his  hip 
pocket. 

"  What  is  it,  Vacca  ?  "  he  cried. 

Young  Vacea,  turning  in  his  seat  in  the  carryall,  was 
looking  up  the  road.  All  at  once,  he  jumped  from  his 
place,  and  dashed  towards  the  window. 

"  Dyke,"  he  shouted.    "  Dyke,  it's  Dyke." 

While  the  words  were  yet  in  his  mouth,  the  sound  of 
the  hoof-beats  rose  to  a  roar,  and  a  great,  bell-toned  voice 
shouted : 

"  Annixter,  Annixter,  Annixter !  " 

It  was  Dyke's  voice,  and  the  next  instant  he  shot  into 
view  in  the  open  square  in  front  of  the  house. 

"  Oh,  my  God !  "  cried  Presley. 

The  ex-engineer  threw  the  horse  on  its  haunches, 
springing  from  the  saddle ;  and,  as  he  did  so,  the  beast 
collapsed,  shuddering,  to  the  ground.  Annixter  sprang 
from  the  window,  and  ran  forward,  Presley  following. 

There  was  Dyke,  hatless,  his  pistol  in  his  hand,  a 
gaunt,  terrible  figure,  the  beard  immeasurably  long,  the 


470  The  Octopus 

cheeks  fallen  in,  the  eyes  sunken.  His  clothes  ripped  and 
torn  by  weeks  of  flight  and  hiding  in  the  chaparral,  were 
ragged  beyond  words,  the  boots  were  shreds  of  leather, 
bloody  to  the  ankle  with  furious  spurring. 

"Annixter,"  he  shouted,  and  again,  rolling  his  sunken 
eyes,  "  Annixter,  Annixter !  " 

"  Here,  here,"  cried  Annixter. 

The  other  turned,  levelling  his  pistol. 

"  Give  me  a  horse,  give  me  a  horse,  quick,  do  you 
hear?  Give  me  a  horse,  or  I'll  shoot." 

"  Steady,  steady.  That  won't  do.  You  know  me. 
Dyke.  We're  friends  here." 

The  other  lowered  his  weapon. 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  he  panted.  "  I'd  forgotten.  I'm 
unstrung,  Mr.  Annixter,  and  I'm  running  for  my  life. 
They're  not  ten  minutes  behind  me." 

"  Come  on,  come  on,"  shouted  Annixter,  dashing 
stablewards,  his  suspenders  flying. 

"  Here's  a  horse." 

"  Mine  ?  "  exclaimed  Presley.  "  He  wouldn't  carry 
you  a  mile." 

Annixter  was  already  far  ahead,  trumpeting  orders. 

"The  buckskin/'  he  yelled.  "Get  her  out,  Billy. 
Where's  the  stable-man?  Get  out  that  buckskin.  Get 
out  that  saddle." 

Then  followed  minutes  of  furious  haste,  Presley,  An- 
nixter, Billy  the  stable-man,  and  Dyke  himself,  darting 
hither  and  thither  about  the  yellow  mare,  buckling,  strap- 
ping, cinching,  their  lips  pale,  their  fingers  trembling  with 
excitement. 

"  Want  anything  to  eat  ?  "  Annixter's  head  was  under 
the  saddle  flap  as  he  tore  at  the  cinch.  "  Want  anything 
to  eat  ?  Want  any  money  ?  Want  a  gun  ?  " 

"Water,"  returned  Dyke.  "They've  watched  every 
spring.  I'm  killed  with  thirst." 


A  Story  of  California  471 

"  There's  the  hydrant.    Quick  now." 

"  I  got  as  far  as  the  Kern  River,  but  they  turned  me 
back,"  he  said  between  breaths  as  he  drank. 

'"  Don't  stop  to  talk." 

"  My  mother,  and  the  little  tad " 

"  I'm  taking  care  of  them.    They're  stopping  with  me." 

"Here?" 

"  You  won't  see  'em ;  by  the  Lord,  you  won't.  You'll 
get  away.  Where's  that  back  cinch  strap,  Billy ?  God 
damn  it,  are  you  going  to  let  him  be  shot  before  he  can 
get  away?  Now,  Dyke,  up  you  go.  She'll  kill  herself 
running  before  they  can  catch  you." 

"God  bless  you,  Annixter.  Where's  the  little  tad? 
Is  she  well,  Annixter,  and  the  mother  ?  Tell  them " 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes.  All  clear,  Pres  ?  Let  her  have  her 
own  gait,  Dyke.  You're  on  the  best  horse  in  the  county 
now.  Let  go  her  head,  Billy.  Now,  Dyke, — shake  hands  ? 
You  bet  I  will.  That's  all  right.  Yes,  God  bless  you. 
Let  her  go.  You're  off." 

Answering  the  goad  of  the  spur,  and  already  quivering 
with  the  excitement  of  the  men  who  surrounded  her,  the 
buckskin  cleared  the  stable-corral  in  two  leaps;  then, 
gathering  her  legs  under  her,  her  head  low,  her  neck 
stretched  out,  swung  into  the  road  from  out  the  driveway, 
disappearing  in  a  blur  of  dust. 

With  the  agility  of  a  monkey,  young  Vacca  swung 
himself  into  the  framework  of  the  artesian  well,  clamber- 
ing aloft  to  its  very  top.  He  swept  the  country  with  a 
glance. 

"  Well  ?  "  demanded  Annixter  from  the  ground.  The 
others  cocked  their  heads  to  listen. 

"  I  see  him ;  I  see  him !  "  shouted  Vacca.  "  He's  going 
like  the  devil.  He's  headed  for  Guadalajara." 

"  Look  back,  up  the  road,  toward  the  Mission.  Any- 
thing there  ?  " 


472  The  Octopus 

The  answer  came  down  in  a  shout  of  apprehension. 

"  There's  a  party  of  men.  Three  or  four — on  horse- 
back. There's  dogs  with  'em.  They're  coming  this  way. 
Oh,  I  can  hear  the  dogs.  And,  say,  oh,  say,  there's  an- 
other party  coming  down  the  Lower  Road,  going  towards 
Guadalajara,  too.  They  got  guns.  I  can  see  the  shine  of 
the  barrels.  And,  oh,  Lord,  say,  there's  three  more  men 
on  horses  coming  down  on  the  jump  from  the  hills  on  the 
Los  Muertos  stock  range.  They're  making  towards 
Guadalajara.  And  I  can  hear  the  courthouse  bell  in 
Bonneville  ringing.  Say,  the  whole  county  is  up." 

As  young  Vacca  slid  down  to  the  ground,  two  small 
black-and-tan  hounds,  with  flapping  ears  and  lolling 
tongues,  loped  into  view  on  the  road  in  front  of  the  house. 
They  were  grey  with  dust,  their  noses  were  to  the 
ground.  At  the  gate  where  Dyke  had  turned  into  the 
ranch  house  grounds,  they  halted  in  confusion  a  mo- 
ment. One  started  to  follow  the  highwayman's  trail  to- 
wards the  stable  corral,  but  the  other,  quartering  over 
the  road  with  lightning  swiftness,  suddenly  picked  up  the 
new  scent  leading  on  towards  Guadalajara.  He  tossed 
his  head  in  the  air,  and  Presley  abruptly  shut  his  hands 
over  his  ears. 

Ah,  that  terrible  cry!  deep-toned,  reverberating  like 
the  bourdon  of  a  great  bell.  It  was  the  trackers  exult- 
ing on  the  trail  of  the  pursued,  the  prolonged,  raucous 
howl,  eager,  ominous,  vibrating  with  the  alarm  of  the 
tocsin,  sullen  with  the  heavy  muffling  note  of  death.  But 
close  upon  the  bay  of  the  hounds,  came  the  gallop  of 
horses.  Five  men,  their  eyes  upon  the  hounds,  their 
rifles  across  their  pommels,  their  horses  reeking  and  black 
with  sweat,  swept  by  in  a  storm  of  dust,  glinting  hoofc, 
and  streaming  manes. 

;<  That  was  Delaney's  gang,"  exclaimed  Annixter.  "  I 
saw  him." 


A  Story  of  California  473 

"  The  other  was  that  chap  Christian,"  said  Vacca,  "  S. 
Behrman's  cousin.  He  had  two  deputies  with  him;  and 
the  chap  in  the  white  slouch  hat  was  the  sheriff  from 
Visalia." 

"  By  the  Lord,  they  aren't  far  behind/'  declared  An- 
nixter. 

As  the  men  turned  towards  the  house  again  they  saw 
Hilma  and  Mrs.  Dyke  in  the  doorway  of  the  little  house 
where  the  latter  lived.  They  were  looking  out,  bewil- 
dered, ignorant  of  what  had  happened.  But  on  the  porch 
of  the  Ranch  house  itself,  alone,  forgotten  in  the  excite- 
ment, Sidney — the  little  tad — stood,  with  pale  face  and 
serious,  wide-open  eyes.  She  had  seen  everything,  and 
had  understood.  She  said  nothing.  Her  head  inclined 
towards  the  roadway,  she  listened  to  the  faint  and  distant 
baying  of  the  dogs. 

Dyke  thundered  across  the  railway  tracks  by  the  depot 
at  Guadalajara  not  five  minutes  ahead  of  his  pursuers. 
Luck  seemed  to  have  deserted  him.  The  station,  usually 
so  quiet,  was  now  occupied  by  the  crew  of  a  freight  train 
that  lay  on  the  down  track ;  while  on  the  up  line,  near  at 
hand  and  headed  in  the  same  direction,  was  a  detached 
locomotive,  whose  engineer  and  fireman  recognized  him, 
he  was  sure,  as  the  buckskin  leaped  across  the  rails. 

He  had  had  no  time  to  formulate  a  plan  since  that 
morning,  when,  tortured  with  thirst,  he  had  ventured  near 
the  spring  at  the  headwaters  of  Broderson  Creek,  on 
Quien  Sabe,  and  had  all  but  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the 
posse  that  had  been  watching  for  that  very  move.  It  was 
useless  now  to  regret  that  he  had  tried  to  foil  pursuit  by 
turning  back  on  his  tracks  to  regain  the  mountains  east 
of  Bonneville.  Now  Delaney  was  almost  on  him.  To 
distance  that  posse,  was  the  only  thing  to  be  thought  of 
now.  It  was  no  longer  a  question  of  hiding  till  pursuit 
should  flag;  they  had  driven  him  out  from  the  shelter  of 


474  The  Octopus 

the  mountains,  down  into  this  populous  countryside, 
where  an  enemy  might  be  met  with  at  every  turn  of  the 
road.  Now  it  was  life  or  death.  He  would  either  escape 
or  be  killed.  He  knew  very  well  that  he  would  never 
allow  himself  to  be  taken  alive.  But  he  had  no  mind  to 
be  killed — to  turn  and  fight — till  escape  was  blocked.  His 
one  thought  was  to  leave  pursuit  behind. 

Weeks  of  flight  had  sharpened  Dyke's  every  sense.  As 
he  turned  into  the  Upper  Road  beyond  Guadalajara,  he 
saw  the  three  men  galloping  down  from  Derrick's  stock 
range,  making  for  the  road  ahead  of  him.  They  would 
cut  him  off  there.  He  swung  the  buckskin  about.  He 
must  take  the  Lower  Road  across  Los  Muertos  from 
Guadalajara,  and  he  must  reach  it  before  Delaney's  dogs 
and  posse.  Back  he  galloped,  the  buckskin  measuring 
her  length  with  every  leap.  Once  more  the  station  came 
in  sight.  Rising  in  his  stirrups,  he  looked  across  the 
fields  in  the  direction  of  the  Lower  Road.  There  was  a 
cloud  of  dust  there.  From  a  wagon  ?  No,  horses  on  the 
run,  and  their  riders  were  armed!  He  could  catch  the 
flash  of  gun  barrels.  They  were  all  closing  in  on  him, 
converging  on  Guadalajara  by  every  available  road.  The 
Upper  Road  west  of  Guadalajara  led  straight  to  Bonne- 
ville.  That  way  was  impossible.  Was  he  in  a  trap  ?  Had 
the  time  for  fighting  come  at  last  ? 

But  as  Dyke  neared  the  depot  at  Guadalajara,  his  eye 
fell  upon  the  detached  locomotive  that  lay  quietly  steam- 
ing on  the  up  line,  and  with  a  thrill  of  exultation,  he 
remembered  that  he  was  an  engineer  born  and  bred. 
Delaney's  dogs  were  already  to  be  heard,  and  the  roll  of 
hoofs  on  the  Lower  Road  was  dinning  in  his  ears,  as  he 
leaped  from  the  buckskin  before  the  depot.  The  train 
crew  scattered  like  frightened  sheep  before  him,  but  Dyke 
ignored  them.  His  pistol  was  in  his  hand  as,  once  more 
on  foot,  he  sprang  toward  the  lone  engine. 


A  Story  of  California  475 

"  Out  of  the  cab/'  he  shouted.  "  Both  of  you.  Quick, 
or  I'll  kill  you  both/' 

The  two  men  tumbled  from  the  iron  apron  of  the 
tender  as  Dyke  swung  himself  up,  dropping  his  pistol  on 
the  floor  of  the  cab  and  reaching  with  the  old  instinct  for 
the  familiar  levers. 

The  great  compound  hissed  and  trembled  as  the  steam 
was  released,  and  the  huge  drivers  stirred,  turning  slowly 
on  the  tracks.  But  there  was  a  shout.  Delaney's  posse, 
dogs  and  men,  swung  into  view  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
their  figures  leaning  over  as  they  took  the  curve  at 
full  speed.  Dyke  threw  everything  wide  open  and  caught 
up  his  revolver.  From  behind  came  the  challenge  of  a 
Winchester.  The  party  on  the  Lower  Road  were  even 
closer  than  Delaney.  They  had  seen  his  manoeuvre,  and 
the  first  shot  of  the  fight  shivered  the  cab  windows  above 
the  engineer's  head. 

But  spinning  futilely  at  first,  the  drivers  of  the  engine 
at  last  caught  the  rails.  The  engine  moved,  advanced, 
travelled  past  the  depot  and  the  freight  train,  and  gather- 
ing speed,  rolled  out  on  the  track  beyond.  Smoke,  black 
and  boiling,  shot  skyward  from  the  stack;  not  a  joint 
that  did  not  shudder  with  the  mighty  strain  of  the  steam ; 
but  the  great  iron  brute — one  of  Baldwin's  newest  and 
best — came  to  call,  obedient  and  docile  as  soon  as  ever 
the  great  pulsing  heart  of  it  felt  a  master  hand  upon  its 
levers.  It  gathered  its  speed,  bracing  its  steel  muscles, 
its  thews  of  iron,  and  roared  out  upon  the  open  track, 
filling  the  air  with  the  rasp  of  its  tempest-breath,  blot- 
ting the  sunshine  with  the  belch  of  its  hot,  thick  smoke. 
Already  it  was  lessening  in  the  distance,  when  Delaney, 
Christian,  and  the  sheriff  of  Visalia  dashed  up  to  the 
station. 

The  posse  had  seen  everything. 

"  Stuck.  Curse  the  luck  !  "  vociferated  the  cow-puncher. 


476  The  Octopus 

But  the  sheriff  was  already  out  of  the  saddle  and  into 
the  telegraph  office. 

"  There's  a  derailing  switch  between  here  and  Pixley, 
isn't  there?"  he  cried. 

"  Yes." 

"  Wire  ahead  to  open  it.  We'll  derail  him  there.  Come 
on ;  "  he  turned  to  Delaney  and  the  others.  They  sprang 
into  the  cab  of  the  locomotive  that  was  attached  to  the 
freight  train. 

"  Name  of  the  State  of  California,"  shouted  the  sheriff 
to  the  bewildered  engineer.  "  Cut  off  from  your  train." 

The  sheriff  was  a  man  to  be  obeyed  without  hesitating. 
Time  was  not  allowed  the  crew  of  the  freight  train  for 
debating  as  to  the  right  or  the  wrong  of  requisitioning 
the  engine,  and  before  anyone  thought  of  the  safety  or 
danger  of  the  affair,  the  freight  engine  was  already  flying 
out  upon  the  down  line,  hot  in  pursuit  of  Dyke,  now  far 
ahead  upon  the  up  track. 

"  I  remember  perfectly  well  there's  a  derailing  switch 
between  here  and  Pixley,"  shouted  the  sheriff  above  the 
roar  of  the  locomotive.  "  They  use  it  in  case  they  have  to 
derail  runaway  engines.  It  runs  right  off  into  the  coun- 
try. We'll  pile  him  up  there.  Ready  with  your  guns, 
boys." 

"  If  we  should  meet  another  train  coming  up  on  this 
track "  protested  the  frightened  engineer. 

"  Then  we'd  jump  or  be  smashed.  Hi !  look !  There 
he  is."  As  the  freight  engine  rounded  a  curve,  Dyke's 
engine  came  into  view,  shooting  on  some  quarter  of  a 
mile  ahead  of  them,  wreathed  in  whirling  smoke. 

"  The  switch  ain't  much  further  on,"  clamoured  the 
engineer.  "  You  can  see  Pixley  now." 

Dyke,  his  hand  on  the  grip  of  the  valve  that  controlled 
the  steam,  his  head  out  of  the  cab  window,  thundered  on. 
He  was  back  in  his  old  place  again ;  once  more  he  was  the 


A  Story  of  California  477 

engineer ;  once  more  he  felt  the  engine  quiver  under  him ; 
the  familiar  noises  were  in  his  ears ;  the  familiar  buffeting 
of  the  wind  surged,  roaring  at  his  face;  the  familiar 
odours  of  hot  steam  and  smoke  reeked  in  his  nostrils, 
and  on  either  side  of  him,  parallel  panoramas,  the  two 
halves  of  the  landscape  sliced,  as  it  were,  in  two  by  the 
clashing  wheels  of  his  engine,  streamed  by  in  green  and 
brown  blurs. 

He  found  himself  settling  to  the  old  position  on  the 
cab  seat,  leaning  on  his  elbow  from  the  window,  one  hand 
on  the  controller.  All  at  once,  the  instinct  of  the  pursuit 
that  of  late  had  become  so  strong  within  him,  prompted 
him  to  shoot  a  glance  behind.  He  saw  the  other  engine 
on  the  down  line,  plunging  after  him,  rocking  from  side 
to  side  with  the  fury  of  its  gallop.  Not  yet  had  he  shaken 
the  trackers  from  his  heels;  not  yet  was  he  out  of  the 
reach  of  danger.  He  set  his  teeth  and,  throwing  open  the 
fire-door,  stoked  vigorously  for  a  few  moments.  The  in- 
dicator of  the  steam  gauge  rose;  his  speed  increased;  a 
glance  at  the  telegraph  poles  told  him  he  was  doing  his 
fifty  miles  an  hour.  The  freight  engine  behind  him  was 
never  built  for  that  pace.  Barring  the  terrible  risk  of 
accident,  his  chances  were  good. 

But  suddenly — the  engineer  dominating  the  highway- 
man— he  shut  off  his  steam  and  threw  back  his  brake  to 
the  extreme  notch.  Directly  ahead  of  him  rose  a  sema- 
phore, placed  at  a  point  where  evidently  a  derailing  switch 
branched  from  the  line.  The  semaphore's  arm  was 
dropped  over  the  track,  setting  the  danger  signal  that 
showed  the  switch  was  open. 

In  an  instant,  Dyke  saw  the  trick.  They  had  meant  to 
smash  him  here;  had  been  clever  enough,  quick-witted 
enough  to  open  the  switch,  but  had  forgotten  the  auto- 
matic semaphore  that  worked  simultaneously  with  the 
movement  of  the  rails.  To  go  forward  was  certain  de- 


478  The  Octopus 

struction.  Dyke  reversed.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  go  back.  With  a  wrench  and  a  spasm  of  all  its  metal 
fibres,  the  great  compound  braced  itself,  sliding  with  rigid 
wheels  along  the  rails.  Then,  as  Dyke  applied  the  re- 
verse, it  drew  back  from  the  greater  danger,  returning 
towards  the  less.  Inevitably  now  the  two  engines,  one  on 
the  up,  the  other  on  the  down  line,  must  meet  and  pass 
each  other. 

Dyke  released  the  levers,  reaching  for  his  revolver. 
The  engineer  once  more  became  the  highwayman,  in 
peril  of  his  life.  Now,  beyond  all  doubt,  the  time  for 
fighting  was  at  hand. 

The  party  in  the  heavy  freight  engine,  that  lumbered 
after  in  pursuit,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  smudge  of  smoke 
on  ahead  that  marked  the  path  of  the  fugitive,  suddenly 
raised  a  shout. 

"  He's  stopped.  He's  broke  down.  Watch,  now,  and 
see  if  he  jumps  off." 

"  Broke  nothing.  He's  coming  back.  Ready,  now,  he's 
got  to  pass  us." 

The  engineer  applied  the  brakes,  but  the  heavy  freight 
locomotive,  far  less  mobile  than  Dyke's  flyer,  was  slow  to 
obey.  The  smudge  on  the  rails  ahead  grew  swiftly 
larger. 

"  He's  coming.  He's  coming — look  out,  there's  a  shot. 
He's  shooting  already." 

A  bright,  white  sliver  of  wood  leaped  into  the  air  from 
the  sooty  window  sill  of  the  cab. 

"  Fire  on  him !    Fire  on  him !  " 

While  the  engines  were  yet  two  hundred  yards  apart, 
the  duel  began,  shot  answering  shot,  the  sharp  staccato 
reports  punctuating  the  thunder  of  wheels  and  the 
clamour  of  steam. 

Then  the  ground  trembled  and  rocked;  a  roar  as  of 
heavy  ordnance  developed  with  the  abruptness  of  an  ex- 


A  Story  of  California  479 

plosion.  The  two  engines  passed  each  other,  the  men 
firing  the  while,  emptying  their  revolvers,  shattering 
wood,  shivering  glass,  the  bullets  clanging  against  the 
metal  work  as  they  struck  and  struck  and  struck.  The 
men  leaned  from  the  cabs  towards  each  other,  frantic 
with  excitement,  shouting  curses,  the  engines  rocking, 
the  steam  roaring;  confusion  whirling  in  the  scene  like 
the  whirl  of  a  witch's  dance,  the  white  clouds  of  steam, 
the  black  eddies  from  the  smokestack,  the  blue  wreaths 
from  the  hot  mouths  of  revolvers,  swirling  together  in  a 
blinding  maze  of  vapour,  spinning  around  them,  dazing 
them,  dizzying  them,  while  the  head  rang  with  hideous 
clamour  and  the  body  twitched  and  trembled  with  the 
leap  and  jar  of  the  tumult  of  machinery. 

Roaring,  clamouring,  reeking  with  the  smell  of  pow- 
der and  hot  oil,  spitting  death,  resistless,  huge,  furious, 
an  abrupt  vision  of  chaos,  faces,  rage-distorted,  peering 
through  smoke,  hands  gripping  outward  from  sudden 
darkness,  prehensile,  malevolent;  terrible  as  thunder, 
swift  as  lightning,  the  two  engines  met  and  passed. 

"  He's  hit,"  cried  Delaney.  "  I  know  I  hit  him.  He 
can't  go  far  now.  After  him  again.  He  won't  dare  go 
through  Bonneville." 

It  was  true.  Dyke  had  stood  between  cab  and  tender 
throughout  all  the  duel,  exposed,  reckless,  thinking  only 
of  attack  and  not  of  defence,  and  a  bullet  from  one  of  the 
pistols  had  grazed  his  hip.  How  serious  was  the  wound 
he  did  not  know,  but  he  had  no  thought  of  giving  up.  He 
tore  back  through  the  depot  at  Guadalajara  in  a  storm 
of  bullets,  and,  clinging  to  the  broken  window  ledge  of 
his  cab,  was  carried  towards  Bonneville,  on  over  the  Long 
Trestle  and  Broderson  Creek  and  through  the  open  coun- 
try between  the  two  ranches  of  Los  Muertos  and  Quien 
Sabe. 

But  to  go  on  to  Bonneville  meant  certain  death.     Be- 


480  The  Octopus 

fore,  as  well  as  behind  him,  the  roads  were  now  blocked. 
Once  more  he  thought  of  the  mountains.  He  resolved  to 
abandon  the  engine  and  make  another  final  attempt  to  get 
into  the  shelter  of  the  hills  in  the  northernmost  corner  of 
Quien  Sabe.  He  set  his  teeth.  He  would  not  give  in. 
There  was  one  more  fight  left  in  him  yet.  Now  to  try 
the  final  hope. 

He  slowed  the  engine  down,  and,  reloading  his  re- 
volver, jumped  from  the  platform  to  the  road.  He  looked 
about  him,  listening.  All  around  him  widened  an  ocean 
of  wheat.  There  was  no  one  in  sight. 

The  released  engine,  alone,  unattended,  drew  slowly 
away  from  him,  jolting  ponderously  over  the  rail  joints. 
As  he  watched  it  go,  a  certain  indefinite  sense  of  aban- 
donment, even  in  that  moment,  came  over  Dyke.  His  last 
friend,  that  also  had  been  his  first,  was  leaving  him.  He 
remembered  that  day,  long  ago,  when  he  had  opened  the 
throttle  of  his  first  machine.  To-day,  it  was  leaving  him 
alone,  his  last  friend  turning  against  him.  Slowly  it  was 
going  back  towards  Bonneville,  to  the  shops  of  the  Rail- 
road, the  camp  of  the  enemy,  that  enemy  that  had  ruined 
him  and  wrecked  him.  For  the  last  time  in  his  life,  he 
had  been  the  engineer.  Now,  once  more,  he  became  the 
highwayman,  the  outlaw  against  whom  all  hands  were 
raised,  the  fugitive  skulking  in  the  mountains,  listening 
for  the  cry  of  dogs. 

But  he  would  not  give  in.  They  had  not  broken  him 
yet.  Never,  while  he  could  fight,  would  he  allow  S.  Behr- 
man  the  triumph  of  his  capture. 

He  found  his  wound  was  not  bad.  He  plunged  into  the 
wheat  on  Quien  Sabe,  making  northward  for  a  division 
house  that  rose  with  its  surrounding  trees  out  of  the 
wheat  like  an  island.  He  reached  it,  the  blood  squelching 
in  his  shoes.  But  the  sight  of  two  men,  Portuguese 
farm-hands,  staring  at  him  from  an  angle  of  the  barn, 


A  Story  of  California  481 

abruptly  roused  him  to  action.  He  sprang  forward  with 
peremptory  commands,  demanding  a  horse. 

At  Guadalajara,  Delaney  and  the  sheriff  descended 
from  the  freight  engine. 

"  Horses  now/'  declared  the  sheriff.  "  He  won't  go 
into  Bonneville,  that's  certain.  He'll  leave  the  engine  be- 
tween here  and  there,  and  strike  off  into  the  country. 
We'll  follow  after  him  now  in  the  saddle.  Soon  as  he 
leaves  his  engine,  he's  on  foot.  We've  as  good  as  got 
him  now." 

Their  horses,  including  even  the  buckskin  mare  that 
Dyke  had  ridden,  were  still  at  the  station.  The  party 
swung  themselves  up,  Delaney  exclaiming,  "  Here's  my 
mount,"  as  he  bestrode  the  buckskin. 

At  Guadalajara,  the  two  bloodhounds  were  picked  up 
again.  Urging  the  jaded  horses  to  a  gallop,  the  party  set 
off  along  the  Upper  Road,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  to 
right  and  left  for  traces  of  Dyke's  abandonment  of  the 
engine. 

Three  miles  beyond  the  Long  Trestle,  they  found  S. 
Behrman  holding  his  saddle  horse  by  the  bridle,  and  look- 
ing attentively  at  a  trail  that  had  been  broken  through 
the  standing  wheat  on  Quien  Sabe.  The  party  drew  rein. 

"  The  engine  passed  me  on  the  tracks  further  up,  and 
empty,"  said  S.  Behrman.  "  Boys,  I  think  he  left  her 
here." 

But  before  anyone  could  answer,  the  bloodhounds 
gave  tongue  again,  as  they  picked  up  the  scent. 

"  That's  him/'  cried  S.  Behrman.    "  Get  on,  boys." 

They  dashed  forward,  following  the  hounds.  S.  Behr- 
man laboriously  climbed  to  his  saddle,  panting,  perspiring, 
mopping  the  roll  of  fat  over  his  coat  collar,  and  turned  in 
after  them,  trotting  along  far  in  the  rear,  his  great 
stomach  and  tremulous  jowl  shaking  with  the  horse's 
gait. 


482  The  Octopus 

"  What  a  day,"  he  murmured.    "  What  a  day." 

Dyke's  trail  was  fresh,  and  was  followed  as  easily  as  if 
made  on  new-fallen  snow.  In  a  short  time,  the  posse 
swept  into  the  open  space  around  the  division  house.  The 
two  Portuguese  were  still  there,  wide-eyed,  terribly  ex- 
cited. 

Yes,  yes,  Dyke  had  been  there  not  half  an  hour  since, 
had  held  them  up,  taken  a  horse  and  galloped  to  the 
northeast,  towards  the  foothills  at  the  headwaters  of 
Broderson  Creek. 

On  again,  at  full  gallop,  through  the  young  wheat, 
trampling  it  under  the  flying  hoofs ;  the  hounds  hot  on 
the  scent,  baying  continually ;  the  men,  on  fresh  mounts, 
secured  at  the  division  house,  bending  forward  in  their 
saddles,  spurring  relentlessly.  S.  Behrman  jolted  along 
far  in  the  rear. 

And  even  then,  harried  through  an  open  country, 
where  there  was  no  place  to  hide,  it  was  a  matter  of 
amazement  how  long  a  chase  the  highwayman  led  them. 
Fences  were  passed ;  fences  whose  barbed  wire  had  been 
slashed  apart  by  the  fugitive's  knife.  The  ground  rose 
under  foot ;  the  hills  were  at  hand ;  still  the  pursuit  held 
on.  The  sun,  long  past  the  meridian,  began  to  turn 
earthward.  Would  night  come  on  before  they  were  up 
with  him? 

"  Look  !    Look  !    There  he  is  !    Quick,  there  he  goes  !  " 

High  on  the  bare  slope  of  the  nearest  hill,  all  the  posse, 
looking  in  the  direction  of  Delaney's  gesture,  saw  the 
figure  of  a  horseman  emerge  from  an  arroyo,  rilled  with 
chaparral,  and  struggle  at  a  labouring  gallop  straight  up 
the  slope.  Suddenly,  every  member  of  the  party  shouted 
aloud.  The  horse  had  fallen,  pitching  the  rider  from  the 
saddle.  The  man  rose  to  his  feet,  caught  at  the  bridle, 
missed  it  and  the  horse  dashed  on  alone.  The  man, 
pausing  for  a  second,  looked  around,  saw  the  chase  draw- 


A  Story  of  California  483 

ing  nearer,  then,  turning  back,  disappeared  in  the  chapar- 
ral. Delaney  raised  a  great  whoop. 

"  We've  got  you  now." 

Into  the  slopes  and  valleys  of  the  hills  dashed  the  band 
of  horsemen,  the  trail  now  so  fresh  that  it  could  be  easily 
discerned  by  all.  On  and  on  it  led  them,  a  furious,  wild 
scramble  straight  up  the  slopes.  The  minutes  went  by. 
The  dry  bed  of  a  rivulet  was  passed ;  then  another  fence ; 
then  a  tangle  of  manzanita ;  a  meadow  of  wild  oats,  full 
of  agitated  cattle ;  then  an  arroyo,  thick  with  chaparral 
and  scrub  oaks,  and  then,  without  warning,  the  pistol 
shots  ripped  out  and  ran  from  rider  to  rider  with  the 
rapidity  of  a  gatling  discharge,  and  one  of  the  deputies 
bent  forward  in  the  saddle,  both  hands  to  his  face,  the 
blood  jetting  from  between  his  fingers. 

Dyke  was  there,  at  bay  at  last,  his  back  against  a  bank 
of  rock,  the  roots  of  a  fallen  tree  serving  him  as  a  ram- 
part, his  revolver  smoking  in  his  hand. 

"  You're  under  arrest,  Dyke,"  cried  the  sheriff.  "  It's 
not  the  least  use  to  fight.  The  whole  country  is  up/' 

Dyke  fired  again,  the  shot  splintering  the  foreleg  of 
the  horse  the  sheriff  rode. 

The  posse,  four  men  all  told — the  wounded  deputy 
having  crawled  out  of  the  fight  after  Dyke's  first  shot — • 
fell  back  after  the  preliminary  fusillade,  dismounted,  and 
took  shelter  behind  rocks  and  trees.  On  that  rugged 
ground,  fighting  from  the  saddle  was  impracticable. 
Dyke,  in  the  meanwhile,  held  his  fire,  for  he  knew  that, 
once  his  pistol  was  empty,  he  would  never  be  allowed 
time  to  reload. 

"  Dyke,"  called  the  sheriff  again,  "  for  the  last  time,  I 
summon  you  to  surrender." 

Dyke  did  not  reply.  The  sheriff,  Delaney,  and  the  man 
named  Christian  conferred  together  in  a  low  voice.  Then 
Delaney  and  Christian  left  the  others,  making  a  wide 


484  The  Octopus 

detour  up  the  sides  of  the  arroyo,  to  gain  a  position  to  the 
left  and  somewhat  to  the  rear  of  Dyke. 

But  it  was  at  this  moment  that  S.  Behrman  arrived. 
It  could  not  be  said  whether  it  was  courage  or  careless- 
ness that  brought  the  Railroad's  agent  within  reach  of 
Dyke's  revolver.  Possibly  he  was  really  a  brave  man; 
possibly  occupied  with  keeping  an  uncertain  seat  upon 
the  back  of  his  labouring,  scrambling  horse,  he  had  not 
noticed  that  he  was  so  close  upon  that  scene  of  battle. 
He  certainly  did  not  observe  the  posse  lying  upon  the 
ground  behind  sheltering  rocks  and  trees,  and  before 
anyone  could  call  a  warning,  he  had  ridden  out  into  the 
open,  within  thirty  paces  of  Dyke's  intrenchment. 

Dyke  saw.  There  was  the  arch-enemy;  the  man  of  all 
men  whom  he  most  hated ;  the  man  who  had  ruined  him, 
who  had  exasperated  him  and  driven  him  to  crime,  and 
who  had  instigated  tireless  pursuit  through  all  those  past 
terrible  weeks.  Suddenly,  inviting  death,  he  leaped  up 
and  forward ;  he  had  forgotten  all  else,  all  other  consider- 
ations, at  the  sight  of  this  man.  He  would  die,  gladly,  so 
only  that  S.  Behrman  died  before  him. 

"  I've  got  you,  anyway,"  he  shouted,  as  he  ran  forward. 

The  muzzle  of  the  weapon  was  not  ten  feet  from  S. 
Behrman's  huge  stomach  as  Dyke  drew  the  trigger.  Had 
the  cartridge  exploded,  death,  certain  and  swift,  would 
have  followed,  but  at  this,  of  all  moments,  the  revolver 
missed  fire. 

S.  Behrman,  with  an  unexpected  agility,  leaped  from 
the  saddle,  and,  keeping  his  horse  between  him  and  Dyke, 
ran,  dodging  and  ducking,  from  tree  to  tree.  His  first 
shot  a  failure,  Dyke  fired  again  and  again  at  his  enemy, 
emptying  his  revolver,  reckless  of  consequences.  His 
every  shot  went  wild,  and  before  he  could  draw  his  knife, 
the  whole  posse  was  upon  him. 

Without  concerted  plans,  obeying  no  signal  but  the 


A  Story  of  California  485 

promptings  of  the  impulse  that  snatched,  unerring,  at 
opportunity — the  men,  Delaney  and  Christian  from  one 
side,  the  sheriff  and  the  deputy  from  the  other,  rushed  in. 
They  did  not  fire.  It  was  Dyke  alive  they  wanted.  One 
of  them  had  a  riata  snatched  from  a  saddle-pommel,  and 
with  this  they  tried  to  bind  him. 

The  fight  was  four  to  one — four  men  with  law  on  their 
side,  to  one  wounded  freebooter,  half-starved,  exhausted 
by  days  and  nights  of  pursuit,  worn  down  with  loss  of 
sleep,  thirst,  privation,  and  the  grinding,  nerve-racking 
consciousness  of  an  ever-present  peril. 

They  swarmed  upon  him  from  all  sides,  gripping  at 
his  legs,  at  his  arms,  his  throat,  his  head,  striking,  clutch- 
ing, kicking,  falling  to  the  ground,  rolling  over  and  over, 
now  under,  now  above,  now  staggering  forward,  now 
toppling  back. 

Still  Dyke  fought.  Through  that  scrambling,  strug- 
gling group,  through  that  maze  of  twisting  bodies,  twin- 
ing arms,  straining  legs,  S.  Behrman  saw  him  from 
moment  to  moment,  his  face  flaming,  his  eyes  bloodshot, 
his  hair  matted  with  sweat.  Now  he  was  down,  pinned 
under,  two  men  across  his  legs,  and  now  half-way  up 
again,  struggling  to  one  knee.  Then  upright  again,  with 
half  his  enemies  hanging  on  his  back.  His  colossal 
strength  seemed  doubled ;  when  his  arms  were  held,  he 
fought  bull-like  with  his  head.  A  score  of  times,  it 
seemed  as  if  they  were  about  to  secure  him  finally  and 
irrevocably,  and  then  he  would  free  an  arm,  a  leg,  a 
shoulder,  and  the  group  that,  for  the  fraction  of  an  in- 
stant, had  settled,  locked  and  rigid,  on  its  prey,  would 
break  up  again  as  he  flung  a  man  from  him,  reeling  and 
bloody,  and  he  himself  twisting,  squirming,  dodging,  his 
great  fists  working  like  pistons,  backed  away,  dragging 
and  carrying  the  others  with  him. 

More  than  once,  he  loosened  almost  every  grip,  and 


486  The  Octopus 

for  an  instant  stood  nearly  free,  panting,  rolling  his  eyes, 
his  clothes  torn  from  his  body,  bleeding,  dripping  with 
sweat,  a  terrible  figure,  nearly  free.  The  sheriff,  under 
his  breath,  uttered  an  exclamation : 

"  By  God,  he'll  get  away  yet." 

S.  Behrman  watched  the  fight  complacently, 

"  That  all  may  show  obstinacy,"  he  commented,  "  but 
it  don't  show  common  sense." 

Yet,  however  Dyke  might  throw  off  the  clutches  and 
fettering  embraces  that  encircled  him,  however  he  might 
disintegrate  and  scatter  the  band  of  foes  that  heaped 
themselves  upon  him,  however  he  might  gain  one  instant 
of  comparative  liberty,  some  one  of  his  assailants  always 
hung,  doggedly,  blindly  to  an  arm,  a  leg,  or  a  foot,  and 
the  others,  drawing  a  second's  breath,  closed  in  again, 
implacable,  unconquerable,  ferocious,  like  hounds  upon  a 
wolf. 

At  lengtn,  two  of  the  men  managed  to  bring  Dyke's 
wrists  close  enough  together  to  allow  the  sheriff  to  snap 
the  handcuffs  on.  Even  then,  Dyke,  clasping  his  hands, 
and  using  the  handcuffs  themselves  as  a  weapon,  knocked 
down  Delaney  by  the  crushing  impact  of  the  steel  brace- 
lets upon  the  cow-puncher's  forehead.  But  he  could  no 
longer  protect  himself  from  attacks  from  behind,  and  the 
riata  was  finally  passed  around  his  body,  pinioning  his 
arms  to  his  sides.  After  this  it  was  useless  to  resist. 

The  wounded  deputy  sat  with  his  back  to  a  rock,  hold- 
ing his  broken  jaw  in  both  hands.  The  sheriff's  horse, 
with  its  splintered  foreleg,  would  have  to  be  shot.  De- 
laney's  head  was  cut  from  temple  to  cheekbone.  The 
right  wrist  of  the  sheriff  was  all  but  dislocated.  The 
other  deputy  was  so  exhausted  he  had  to  be  helped  to  his 
horse.  But  Dyke  was  taken. 

He  himself  had  suddenly  lapsed  into  semi-unconscious- 
ness, unable  to  walk.  They  sat  him  on  the  buckskin,  S. 


A  Story  of  California  487 

Behrman  supporting  him,  the  sheriff,  on  foot,  leading  the 
horse  by  the  bridle.  The  little  procession  formed,  and 
descended  from  the  hills,  turning  'in  the  direction  of 
Bonneville.  A  special  train,  one  car  and  an  engine,  would 
be  made  up  there,  and  the  highwayman  would  sleep  in  the 
Visalia  jail  that  night. 

Delaney  and  S.  Behrman  found  themselves  in  the  rear 
of  the  cavalcade  as  it  moved  off.  The  cow-puncher 
turned  to  his  chief: 

"  Well,  captain,"  he  said,  still  panting,  as  he  bound  up 
his  forehead ;  "  well — we  got  him/' 


VI 


Osterman  cut  his  wheat  that  summer  before  any  of  the 
other  ranchers,  and  as  soon  as  his  harvest  was  over  or- 
ganized a  jack-rabbit  drive.  Like  Annixter's  barn-dance, 
it  was  to  be  an  event  in  which  all  the  country-side  should 
take  part.  The  drive  was  to  begin  on  the  most  western 
division  of  the  Osterman  ranch,  whence  it  would  proceed 
towards  the  southeast,  crossing  into  the  northern  part  of 
Quien  Sabe — on  which  Annixter  had  sown  no  wheat — 
and  ending  in  the  hills  at  the  headwaters  of  Broderson 
Creek,  where  a  barbecue  was  to  be  held. 

Early  on  the  morning  of  the  day  of  the  drive,  as  Har- 
ran  and  Presley  were  saddling  their  horses  before  the 
stables  on  Los  Muertos,  the  foreman,  Phelps,  remarked : 

"  I  was  into  town  last  night,  and  I  hear  that  Christian 
has  been  after  Ruggles  early  and  late  to  have  him  put 
him  in  possession  here  on  Los  Muertos,  and  Delaney  is 
doing  the  same  for  Quien  Sabe." 

It  was  this  man  Christian,  the  real  estate  broker,  and 
cousin  of  S.  Behrman,  one  of  the  main  actors  in  the 
drama  of  Dyke's  capture,  who  had  come  forward  as  a 
purchaser  of  Los  Muertos  when  the  Railroad  had  re- 
graded  its  holdings  on  the  ranches  around  Bonneville. 

"  He  claims,  of  course,"  Phelps  went  on,  "  that  when 
he  bought  Los  Muertos  of  the  Railroad  he  was  guar- 
anteed possession,  and  he  wants  the  place  in  time  for  the 
harvest." 

"  That's  almost  as  thin,"  muttered  Harran  as  he  thrust 
the  bit  into  his  horse's  mouth,  "  as  Delaney  buying  An- 


A  Story  of  California  489 

nixter  s  Home  ranch.  That  slice  of  Quien  Sabe,  accord- 
ing to  the  Railroad's  grading,  is  worth  about  ten  thousand 
dollars;  yes,  even  fifteen,  and  I  don't  believe  Delaney  is 
worth  the  price  of  a  good  horse.  Why,  those  people  don't 
even  try  to  preserve  appearances.  Where  would  Christian 
find  the  money  to  buy  Los  Muertos?  There's  no  one 
man  in  all  Bonneville  rich  enough  to  do  it.  Damned  ras- 
cals! as  if  we  didn't  see  that  Christian  and  Delaney  are 
S.  Behrman's  right  and  left  hands.  Well,  he'll  get  'em 
cut  off,"  he  cried  with  sudden  fierceness,  "  if  he  comes 
too  near  the  machine/' 

"  How  is  it,  Harran,"  asked  Presley  as  the  two  young 
men  rode  out  of  the  stable  yard,  "  how  is  it  the  Railroad 
gang  can  do  anything  before  the  Supreme  Court  hands 
down  a  decision  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  know  how  they  talk,"  growled  Harran. 
"  They  have  claimed  that  the  cases  taken  up  to  the 
Supreme  Court  were  not  test  cases  as  we  claim  they  are, 
and  that  because  neither  Annixter  nor  the  Governor  ap- 
pealed, they've  lost  their  cases  by  default.  It's  the  rotten- 
est  kind  of  sharp  practice,  but  it  won't  do  any  good.  The 
League  is  too  strong.  They  won't  dare  move  on  us  yet 
awhile.  Why,  Pres,  the  moment  they'd  try  to  jump  any 
of  these  ranches  around  here,  they  would  have  six  hun- 
dred rifles  cracking  at  them  as  quick  as  how-do-you-do. 
Why,  it  would  take  a  regiment  of  U.  S.  soldiers  to  put 
any  one  of  us  off  our  land.  No,  sir;  they  know  the 
League  means  business  this  time." 

As  Presley  and  Harran  trotted  on  along  the  county 
road  they  continually  passed  or  overtook  other  horsemen, 
or  buggies,  carry-alls,  buck-boards  or  even  farm  wagons, 
going  in  the  same  direction.  These  were  full  of  the 
farming  people  from  all  the  country  round  about  Bonne- 
ville, on  their  way  to  the  rabbit  drive — the  same  people 
seen  at  the  barn-dance — in  their  Sunday  finery,  the  girls 


490  The  Octopus 

in  muslin  frocks  and  garden  hats,  the  men  with  linen 
dusters  over  their  black  clothes;  the  older  women  in 
prints  and  dotted  calicoes.  Many  of  these  latter  had 
already  taken  off  their  bonnets — the  day  was  very  hot — 
and  pinning  them  in  newspapers,  stowed  them  under 
the  seats.  They  tucked  their  handkerchiefs  into  the 
collars  of  their  dresses,  or  knotted  them  about  their  fat 
necks,  to  keep  out  the  dust.  From  the  axle  trees  of  the 
vehicles  swung  carefully  covered  buckets  of  galvanised 
iron,  in  which  the  lunch  was  packed.  The  younger  chil- 
dren, the  boys  with  great  frilled  collars,  the  girls  with 
ill-fitting  shoes  cramping  their  feet,  leaned  from  the  sides 
of  buggy  and  carry-all,  eating  bananas  and  "  macaroons," 
staring  about  with  ox-like  stolidity.  Tied  to  the  axles, 
the  dogs  followed  the  horses'  hoofs  with  lolling  tongues 
coated  with  dust. 

The  California  summer  lay  blanket-wise  and  smother- 
ing over  all  the  land.  The  hills,  bone-dry,  were  browned 
and  parched.  The  grasses  and  wild-oats,  sear  and  yellow, 
snapped  like  glass  filaments  under  foot.  The  roads,  the 
bordering  fences,  even  the  lower  leaves  and  branches  of 
the  trees,  were  thick  and  grey  with  dust.  All  colour  had 
been  burned  from  the  landscape,  except  in  the  irrigated 
patches,  that  in  the  waste  of  brown  and  dull  yellow 
glowed  like  oases. 

The  wheat,  now  close  to  its  maturity,  had  turned  from 
pale  yellow  to  golden  yellow,  and  from  that  to  brown. 
Like  a  gigantic  carpet,  it  spread  itself  over  all  the  land. 
There  was  nothing  else  to  be  seen  but  the  limitless  sea  of 
wheat  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  dry,  rustling,  crisp 
and  harsh  in  the  rare  breaths  of  hot  wind  out  of  the 
southeast. 

As  Harran  and  Presley  went  along  the  county  road, 
the  number  of  vehicles  and  riders  increased.  They  over- 
took and  passed  Hooven  and  his  family  in  the  former's 


A  Story  of  California  491 

farm  wagon,  a  saddled  horse  tied  to  the  back  board.  The- 
little  Dutchman,  wearing  the  old  frock  coat  of  Magnus 
Derrick,  and  a  new  broad-brimmed  straw  hat,  sat  on  the 
front  seat  with  Mrs.  Hooven.  The  little  girl  Hilda,  and 
the  older  daughter  Minna,  were  behind  them  on  a  board 
laid  across  the  sides  of  the  wagon.  Presley  and  Harran 
stopped  to  shake  hands. 

"  Say,"  cried  Hooven,  exhibiting  an  old,  but  extreme- 
ly well  kept,  rifle,  "  say,  bei  Gott,  me,  I  tek  some  schatz  at 
dose  rebbit,  you  bedt.  Ven  he  hef  shtop  to  run  und  sit 
oop  soh,  bei  der  hind  laigs  on,  I  oop  mit  der  guhn  und — • 
bing !  /  cetch  um." 

"  The  marshals  won't  allow  you  to  shoot,  Bismarck," 
observed  Presley,  looking  at  Minna. 

Hooven  doubled  up  with  merriment. 

"  Ho !  dot's  hell  of  some  fine  joak.  Me,  I'm  one  oaf 
dose  mairschell  mine-selluf ,"  he  roared  with  delight,  beat- 
ing his  knee.  To  his  notion,  the  joke  was  irresistible. 
All  day  long,  he  could  be  heard  repeating  it.  "  Und 
.Mist'r  Praicelie,  he  say, '  Dose  mairschell  woand  led  you 
schoot,  Bismarck,'  und  me,  ach  Gott,  me,  aindt  I  mine- 
selluf  one  oaf  dose  mairschell?  " 

As  the  two  friends  rode  on,  Presley  had  in  his  mind 
the  image  of  Minna  Hooven,  very  pretty  in  a  clean  gown 
of  pink  gingham,  a  cheap  straw  sailor  hat  from  a  Bonne- 
ville  store  on  her  blue  black  hair.  He  remembered  her 
very  pale  face,  very  red  lips  and  eyes  of  greenish  blue,— -* 
a  pretty  girl  certainly,  always  trailing  a  group  of  men 
behind  her.  Her  love  affairs  were  the  talk  of  all  Los 
Muertos. 

"  I  hope  that  Hooven  girl  won't  go  to  the  bad,"  Presley 
said  to  Harran. 

"  Oh,  she's  all  right,"  the  other  answered.  "  There's 
nothing  vicious  about  Minna,  and  I  guess  she'll  marry 
that  foreman  on  the  ditch  gang,  right  enough." 


49 2  The  Octopus 

"  Well,  as  a  matter  of  course,  she's  a  good  girl,"  Pres- 
ley hastened  to  reply,  "  only  she's  too  pretty  for  a  poor 
girl,  and  too  sure  of  her  prettiness  besides.  That's  the 
kind,"  he  continued,  "  who  would  find  it  pretty  easy  to  go 
wrong  if  they  lived  in  a  city." 

Around  Caraher's  was  a  veritable  throng.  Saddle 
horses  and  buggies  by  the  score  were  clustered  under- 
neath the  shed  or  hitched  to  the  railings  in  front  of  the 
watering  trough.  Three  of  Broderson's  Portuguese 
tenants  and  a  couple  of  workmen  from  the  Railroad  shops 
in  Bonneville  were  on  the  porch,  already  very  drunk. 

Continually,  young  men,  singly  or  in  groups,  came 
from  the  door-way,  wiping  their  lips  with  sidelong  ges- 
tures of  the  hand.  The  whole  place  exhaled  the  febrile 
bustle  of  the  saloon  on  a  holiday  morning. 

The  procession  of  teams  streamed  on  through  Bonne- 
ville, reenforced  at  every  street  corner.  Along  the  Upper 
Road  from  Quien  Sabe  and  Guadalajara  came  fresh  aux- 
iliaries, Spanish-Mexicans  from  the  town  itself, — swarthy 
young  men  on  capering  horses,  dark-eyed  girls  and  ma- 
trons, in  red  and  black  and  yellow,  more  Portuguese  in 
brand-new  overalls,  smoking  long  thin  cigars.  Even 
Father  Sarria  appeared. 

"  Look,"  said  Presley,  "  there  goes  Annixter  and 
Hilma.  He's  got  his  buckskin  back."  The  master  of 
Quien  Sabe,  in  top  laced  boots  and  campaign  hat,  a  cigar 
in  his  teeth,  followed  along  beside  the  carry-all.  Hilma 
and  Mrs.  Derrick  were  on  the  back  seat,  young  Vacca 
driving.  Harran  and  Presley  bowed,  taking  off  their 
hats. 

"  Hello,  hello,  Pres,"  cried  Annixter,  over  the  heads  of 
the  intervening  crowd,  standing  up  in  his  stirrups  and 
waving  a  hand,  "  Great  day !  What  a  mob,  hey  ?  Say, 
when  this  thing  is  over  and  everybody  starts  to  walk  into 
the  barbecue,  come  and  have  lunch  with  us.  I'll  look 


A  Story  of  California  493 

for  you,  you  and  Harran.  Hello,  Harran,  where's  the 
Governor  ?  " 

"  He  didn't  come  to-day,"  Harran  shouted  back,  as  the 
crowd  carried  him  further  away  from  Annixter.  "  Left 
him  and  old  Broderson  at  Los  Muertos." 

The  throng  "emerged  into  the  open  country  again, 
spreading  out  upon  the  Osterman  ranch.  From  all  direc- 
tions could  be  seen  horses  and  buggies  driving  across  the 
stubble,  converging  upon  the  rendezvous.  Osterman's 
Ranch  house  was  left  to  the  eastward;  the  army  of  the 
guests  hurrying  forward — for  it  began  to  be  late — to 
where  around  a  flag  pole,  flying  a  red  flag,  a  vast  crowd 
of  buggies  and  horses  was  already  forming.  The  mar- 
shals began  to  appear.  Hooven,  descending  from  the 
farm  wagon,  pinned  his  white  badge  to  his  hat  brim  and 
mounted  his  horse.  Osterman,  in  marvellous  riding 
clothes  of  English  pattern,  galloped  up  and  down  upon 
his  best  thoroughbred,  cracking  jokes  with  everybody, 
chaffing,  joshing,  his  great  mouth  distended  in  a  per- 
petual grin  of  amiability. 

"  Stop  here,  stop  here,"  he  vociferated,  dashing  along 
in  front  of  Presley  and  Harran,  waving  his  crop.  The 
procession  came  to  a  halt,  the  horses'  heads  pointing 
eastward.  The  line  began  to  be  formed.  The  marshals 
perspiring,  shouting,  fretting,  galloping  about,  urging 
this  one  forward,  ordering  this  one  back,  ranged  the 
thousands  of  conveyances  and  cavaliers  in  a  long  line, 
shaped  like  a  wide  open  crescent.  Its  wings,  under  the 
command  of  lieutenants,  were  slightly  advanced.  Far  out 
before  its  centre  Osterman  took  his  place,  delighted  be- 
yond expression  at  his  conspicuousness,  posing  for  the 
gallery,  making  his  horse  dance. 

"  Wail,  aindt  dey  gowun  to  gommence  den  bretty 
soohn,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hooven,  who  had  taken  her 
husband's  place  on  the  forward  seat  of  the  wagon. 


494  The  Octopus 

"  I  never  was  so  warm,"  murmured  Minna,  fanning 
herself  with  her  hat.  All  seemed  in  readiness.  For  miles 
over  the  flat  expanse  of  stubble,  curved  the  interminable 
lines  of  horses  and  vehicles.  At  a  guess,  nearly  five 
thousand  people  were  present.  The  drive  was  one  of  the 
largest  ever  held.  But  no  start  was  made;  immobilized, 
the  vast  crescent  stuck  motionless  under  the  blazing  sun. 
Here  and  there  could  be  heard  voices  uplifted  in  jocular 
remonstrance. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  get  a  move  on,  somebody." 

"  All  aboard." 

"  Say,  I'll  take  root  here  pretty  soon." 

Some  took  malicious  pleasure  in  starting  false  alarms. 

"  Ah,  here  we  go." 

"  Off,  at  last." 

"  We're  off/' 

Invariably  these  jokes  fooled  some  one  in  the  line.  An 
old  man,  or  some  old  woman,  nervous,  hard  of  hearing, 
always  gathered  up  the  reins  and  started  off,  only  to  be 
hustled  and  ordered  back  into  the  line  by  the  nearest 
marshal.  This  manoeuvre  never  failed  to  produce  its 
effect  of  hilarity  upon  those  near  at  hand.  Everybody 
laughed  at  the  blunderer,  the  joker  jeering  audibly. 

"  Hey,  come  back  here." 

"  Oh,  he's  easy." 

"  Don't  be  in  a  hurry,  Grandpa." 

"  Say,  you  want  to  drive  all  the  rabbits  yourself." 

Later  on,  a  certain  group  of  these  fellows  started  a 
huge  "  josh." 

"  Say,  that's  what  we're  waiting  for,  the  '  do-funny/  '" 

"  The  do- funny?  " 

"  Sure,  you  can't  drive  rabbits  without  the  '  do-funny.' ' 

"What's  the  do-funny?" 

"  Oh,  say,  she  don't  know  what  the  do-funny  is.  We 
can't  start  without  it,  sure.  Pete  went  back  to  get  it." 


A  Story  of  California  495 

"  Oh,  you're  joking  me,  there's  no  such  thing." 

"  Well,  aren't  we  waiting  for  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  look,  look,"  cried  some  women  in  a  covered 
rig.  "  See,  they  are  starting  already  'way  over  there." 

In  fact,  it  did  appear  as  if  the  far  extremity  of  the 
line  was  in  motion.  Dust  rose  in  the  air  above  it. 

"  They  are  starting.    Why  don't  we  start  ?  " 

"  No,  they've  stopped.     False  alarm." 

"  They've  not,  either.    Why  don't  we  move?  " 

But  as  one  or  two  began  to  move  off,  the  nearest  mar- 
shal shouted  wrathfully: 

"  Get  back  there,  get  back  there." 

"  Well,  they've  started  over  there." 

"  Get  back,  I  tell  you." 

"  Where's  the  '  do-funny  ?  '  " 

"  Say,  we're  going  to  miss  it  all.  They've  all  started 
over  there." 

A  lieutenant  came  galloping  along  in  front  of  the  line, 
shouting : 

"  Here,  what's  the  matter  here  ?  Why  don't  you 
start?" 

There  was  a  great  shout.  Everybody  simultaneously 
uttered  a  prolonged  "  Oh-h." 

"  We're  off." 

"  Here  we  go  for  sure  this  time." 

"  Remember  to  keep  the  alignment,"  roared  the  lieu- 
tenant. "  Don't  go  too  fast." 

And  the  marshals,  rushing  here  and  there  on  their 
sweating  horses  to  points  where  the  line  bulged  forward, 
shouted,  waving  their  arms :  "  Not  too  fast,  not  too  fast. 
.  .  .  Keep  back  here.  .  .  .  Here,  keep  closer  to- 
gether here.  Do  you  want  to  let  all  the  rabbits  run  back 
between  you  ?  " 

A  great  confused  sound  rose  into  the  air, — the  creaking 
of  axles,  the  jolt  of  iron  tires  over  the  dry  clods,  the  click 


496  The  Octopus 

of  brittle  stubble  under  the  horses'  hoofs,  the  barking  of 
dogs,  the  shouts  of  conversation  and  laughter. 

The  entire  line,  horses,  buggies,  wagons,  gigs,  dogs, 
men  and  boys  on  foot,  and  armed  with  clubs,  moved 
slowly  across  the  fields,  sending  up  a  cloud  of  white  dust, 
that  hung  above  the  scene  like  smoke.  A  brisk  gaiety 
was  in  the  air.  •  Everyone  was  in  the  best  of  humor, 
calling  from  team  to  team,  laughing,  skylarking,  joshing. 
Garnett,  of  the  Ruby  Rancho,  and  Gethings,  of  the  San 
Pablo,  both  on  horseback,  found  themselves  side  by  side. 
Ignoring  the  drive  and  the  spirit  of  the  occasion,  they 
kept  up  a  prolonged  and  serious  conversation  on  an 
expected  rise  in  the  price  of  wheat.  Dabney,  also  on 
horseback,  followed  them,  listening  attentively  to  every 
word,  but  hazarding  no  remark. 

Mrs.  Derrick  and  Hilma  sat  in  the  back  seat  of  the 
carry-all,  behind  young  Vacca.  Mrs.  Derrick,  a  little  dis- 
turbed by  such  a  great  concourse  of  people,  frightened 
at  the  idea  of  the  killing  of  so  many  rabbits,  drew  back  in 
her  place,  her  young-girl  eyes  troubled  and  filled  with  a 
vague  distress.  Hilma,  very  much  excited,  leaned  from 
the  carry-all,  anxious  to  see  everything,  watching  for 
rabbits,  asking  innumerable  questions  of  Annixter,  who 
rode  at  her  side. 

The  change  that  had  been  progressing  in  Hilma,  ever 
since  the  night  of  the  famous  barn-dance,  now  seemed 
to  be  approaching  its  climax ;  first  the  girl,  then  the 
woman,  last  of  all  the  Mother.  Conscious  dignity,  a  new 
element  in  her  character,  developed.  The  shrinking,  the 
timidity  of  the  girl  just  awakening  to  the  consciousness 
of  sex,  passed  away  from  her.  The  confusion,  the 
troublous  complexity  of  the  woman,  a  mystery  even  to 
herself,  disappeared.  Motherhood  dawned,  the  old  sim- 
plicity of  her  maiden  days  came  back  to  her.  It  was 
no  longer  a  simplicity  of  ignorance,  but  of  supreme 


A  Story  of  California  497 

knowledge,  the  simplicity  of  the  perfect,  the  simplicity 
of  greatness.  She  looked  the  world  fearlessly  in  the 
eyes.  At  last,  the  confusion  of  her  ideas,  like  frightened 
birds,  re-settling,  adjusted  itself,  and  she  emerged  from 
the  trouble  calm,  serene,  entering  into  her  divine  right, 
like  a  queen  into  the  rule  of  a  realm  of  perpetual  peace. 

And  with  this,  with  the  knowledge  that  the  crown  hung 
poised  above  her  head,  there  came  upon  Hilma  a  gentle- 
ness infinitely  beautiful,  infinitely  pathetic;  a  sweetness 
that  touched  all  who  came  near  her  with  the  softness  of  a 
caress.  She  moved  surrounded  by  an  invisible  atmos- 
phere of  Love.  Love  was  in  her  wide-opened  brown 
eyes,  Love — the  dim  reflection  of  that  descending  crown 
poised  over  her  head — radiated  in  a  faint  lustre  from  her 
dark,  thick  hair.  Around  her  beautiful  neck,  sloping  to 
her  shoulders  with  full,  graceful  curves,  Love  lay  en- 
circled like  a  necklace — Love  that  was  beyond  words, 
sweet,  breathed  from  her  parted  lips.  From  her  white, 
large  arms  downward  to  her  pink  finger-tips — Love,  an 
invisible  electric  fluid,  disengaged  itself,  subtle,  alluring. 
In  the  velvety  huskiness  of  her  voice,  Love  vibrated  like 
a  note  of  unknown  music. 

Annixter,  her  uncouth,  rugged  husband,  living  in  this 
influence  of  a  wife,  who  was  also  a  mother,  at  all  hours 
touched  to  the  quick  by  this  sense  of  nobility,  of  gentle- 
ness and  of  love,  the  instincts  of  a  father  already  clutch- 
ing and  tugging  at  his  heart,  was  trembling  on  the 
verge  of  a  mighty  transformation.  The  hardness  and 
inhumanity  of  the  man  was  fast  breaking  up.  One 
night,  returning  late  to  the  Ranch  house,  after  a  compul- 
sory visit  to  the  city,  he  had  come  upon  Hilma  asleep. 
He  had  never  forgotten  that  night.  A  realization  of  his 
boundless  happiness  in  this  love  he  gave  and  received,  the 
thought  that  Hilma  trusted  him,  a  knowledge  of  his  own 
unworthiness,  a  vast  and  humble  thankfulness  that  his 
32 


498  The  Octopus 

God  had  chosen  him  of  all  men  for  this  great  joy,  had 
brought  him  to  his  knees  for  the  first  time  in  all  his 
troubled,  restless  life  of  combat  and  aggression.  He 
prayed,  he  knew  not  what, — vague  words,  wordless 
thoughts,  resolving  fiercely  to  do  right,  to  make  some 
return  for  God's  gift  thus  placed  within  his  hands. 

Where  once  Annixter  had  thought  only  of  himself,  he 
now  thought  only  of  Hilma.  The  time  when  this  thought 
of  another  should  broaden  and  widen  into  thought  of 
Others,  was  yet  to  come ;  but  already  it  had  expanded  to 
include  the  unborn  child — already,  as  in  the  case  of  Mrs. 
Dyke,  it  had  broadened  to  enfold  another  child  and 
another  mother  bound  to  him  by  no  ties  other  than  those 
of  humanity  and  pity.  In  time,  starting  from  this  point 
it  would  reach  out  more  and  more  till  it  should  take  in 
all  men  and  all  women,  and  the  intolerant  selfish  man, 
while  retaining  all  of  his  native  strength,  should  become 
tolerant  and  generous,  kind  and  forgiving. 

For  the  moment,  however,  the  two  natures  struggled 
within  him.  A  fight  was  to  be  fought,  one  more,  the 
last,  the  fiercest,  the  attack  of  the  enemy  who  menaced 
his  very  home  and  hearth,  was  to  be  resisted.  Then, 
peace  attained,  arrested  development  would  once  more 
proceed. 

Hilma  looked  from  the  carry-all,  scanning  the  open 
plain  in  front  of  the  advancing  line  of  the  drive. 

"  Where  are  the  rabbits?  "  she  asked  of  Annixter.  "  I 
don't  see  any  at  all." 

"  They  are  way  ahead  of  us  yet,"  he  said.  "  Here, 
take  the  glasses." 

He  passed  her  his  field  glasses,  and  she  adjusted  them. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  cried,  "  I  see.  I  can  see  five  or  six,  but 
oh,  so  far  off." 

"  The  beggars  run  'way  ahead,  at  first." 

"  I  should  say  so.    See  them  run, — little  specks.    Every 


A  Story  of  California  499 

now  and  then  they  sit  up,  their  ears  straight  up,  in  the 
air." 

"  Here,  look,  Hilma,  there  goes  one  close  by." 

From  out  of  the  ground  apparently,  some  twenty  yards 
distant,  a  great  jack  sprang  into  view,  bounding  away 
with  tremendous  leaps,  his  black-tipped  ears  erect.  He 
disappeared,  his  grey  body  losing  itself  against  the  grey 
of  the  ground. 

"  Oh,  a  big  fellow." 

"  Hi,  yonder's  another." 

"  Yes,  yes,  oh,  look  at  him  run." 

From  off  the  surface  of  the  ground,  at  first  apparently 
empty  of  all  life,  and  seemingly  unable  to  afford  hiding 
place  for  so  much  as  a  field-mouse,  jack-rabbits  started 
up  at  every  moment  as  the  line  went  forward.  At  first, 
they  appeared  singly  and  at  long  intervals ;  then  in  twos 
and  threes,  as  the  drive  continued  to  advance.  They 
leaped  across  the  plain,  and  stopped  in  the  distance,  sit- 
ting up  with  straight  ears,  then  ran  on  again,  were 
joined  by  others;  sank  down  flush  to  the  soil — their  ears 
flattened;  started  up  again,  ran  to  the  side,  turned  back 
once  more,  darted  away  with  incredible  swiftness,  and 
were  lost  to  view  only  to  be  replaced  by  a  score  of 
others. 

Gradually,  the  number  of  jacks  to  be  seen  over  the  ex- 
panse of  stubble  in  front  of  the  line  of  teams  increased. 
Their  antics  were  infinite.  No  two  acted  precisely  alike. 
Some  lay  stubbornly  close  in  a  little  depression  between 
two  clods,  till  the  horses'  hoofs  were  all  but  upon  them, 
then  sprang  out  from  their  hiding-place  at  the  last  second. 
Others  ran  forward  but  a  few  yards  at  a  time,  refusing 
to  take  flight,  scenting  a  greater  danger  before  them  than 
behind.  Still  others,  forced  up  at  the  last  moment, 
doubled  with  lightning  alacrity  in  their  tracks,  turning 
back  to  scuttle  between  the  teams,  taking  desperate 


500  The  Octopus 

chances.  As  often  as  this  occurred,  it  was  the  signal  for 
a  great  uproar. 

"  Don't  let  him  get  through ;  don't  let  him  get  through." 

"  Look  out  for  him,  there  he  goes." 

Horns  were  blown,  bells  rung,  tin  pans  clamorously 
beaten.  Either  the  jack  escaped,  or  confused  by  the 
noise,  darted  back  again,  fleeing  away  as  if  his  life  de- 
pended on  the  issue  of  the  instant.  Once  even,  a  bewil- 
dered rabbit  jumped  fair  into  Mrs.  Derrick's  lap  as  she 
sat  in  the  carry-all,  and  was  out  again  like  a  flash. 

"  Poor  frightened  thing,"  she  exclaimed ;  and  for  a 
long  time  afterward,  she  retained  upon  her  knees  the 
sensation  of  the  four  little  paws  quivering  with  excite- 
ment, and  the  feel  of  the  trembling  furry  body,  with  its 
wildly  beating  heart,  pressed  against  her  own. 

By  noon  the  number  of  rabbits  discernible  by  Annix- 
ter's  field  glasses  on  ahead  was  far  into  the  thousands. 
What  seemed  to  be  ground  resolved  itself,  when  seen 
through  the  glasses,  into  a  maze  of  small,  moving  bodies, 
leaping,  ducking,  doubling,  running  back  and  forth — a 
wilderness  of  agitated  ears,  white  tails  and  twinkling 
legs.  The  outside  wings  of  the  curved  line  of  vehicles 
began  to  draw  in  a  little ;  Osterman's  ranch  was  left  be- 
hind, the  drive  continued  on  over  Quien  Sabe. 

As  the  day  advanced,  the  rabbits,  singularly  enough, 
became  less  wild.  When  flushed,  they  no  longer  ran  so 
far  nor  so  fast,  limping  off  instead  a  few  feet  at  a  time, 
and  crouching  down,  their  ears  close  upon  their  backs. 
Thus  it  was,  that  by  degrees  the  teams  began  to  close  up 
on  the  main  herd.  At  every  instant  the  numbers  in- 
creased. It  was  no  longer  thousands,  it  was  tens  of  thou- 
sands. The  earth  was  alive  with  rabbits. 

Denser  and  denser  grew  the  throng.  In  all  directions 
nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  the  loose  mass  of  the  moving 
jacks.  The  horns  of  the  crescent  of  teams  began  to  con- 


A  Story  of  California  501 

tract.  Far  off  the  corral  came  into  sight.  The  disinte- 
grated mass  of  rabbits  commenced,  as  it  were,  to  solidify, 
to  coagulate.  At  first,  each  jack  was  some  three  feet  dis- 
tant from  his  nearest  neighbor,  but  this  space  diminished 
to  two  feet,  then  to  one,  then  to  but  a  few  inches.  The 
rabbits  began  leaping  over  one  another. 

Then  the  strange  scene  defined  itself.  It  was  no  longer 
a  herd  covering  the  earth.  It  was  a  sea,  whipped  into 
confusion,  tossing  incessantly,  leaping,  falling,  agitated 
by  unseen  forces.  At  times  the  unexpected  tameness  of 
the  rabbits  all  at  once  vanished.  Throughout  certain 
portions  of  the  herd  eddies  of  terror  abruptly  burst  forth. 
A  panic  spread;  then  there  would  ensue  a  blind,  wild 
rushing  together  of  thousands  of  crowded  bodies,  and  a 
furious  scrambling  over  backs,  till  the  scuffing  thud  of 
innumerable  feet  over  the  earth  rose  to  a  reverberating 
murmur  as  of  distant  thunder,  here  and  there  pierced 
by  the  strange,  wild  cry  of  the  rabbit  in  distress. 

The  line  of  vehicles  was  halted.  To  go  forward  now 
meant  to  trample  the  rabbits  under  foot.  The  drive  came 
to  a  standstill  while  the  herd  entered  the  corral.  This 
took  time,  for  the  rabbits  were  by  now  too  crowded  to 
run.  However,  like  an  opened  sluice-gate,  the  extending 
flanks  of  the  entrance  of  the  corral  slowly  engulfed  the 
herd.  The  mass,  packed  tight  as  ever,  by  degrees  di- 
minished, precisely  as  a  pool  of  water  when  a  dam  is 
opened.  The  last  stragglers  went  in  with  a  rush,  and  the 
gate  was  dropped. 

"  Come,  just  have  a  look  in  here,"  called  Annixter. 

Hilma,  descending  from  the  carry-all  and  joined  by 
Presley  and  Harran,  approached  and  looked  over  the 
high  board  fence. 

"  Oh,  did  you  ever  see  anything  like  that  ? "  she  ex- 
claimed. 

The  corral,  a  really  large  enclosure,  had  proved  all  too 


502  The  Octopus 

small  for  the  number  of  rabbits  collected  by  the  drive. 
Inside  it  was  a  living,  moving,  leaping,  breathing,  twist- 
ing mass.  The  rabbits  were  packed  two,  three,  and  four 
feet  deep.  They  were  in  constant  movement;  those  be- 
neath struggling  to  the  top,  those  on  top  sinking  and  dis- 
appearing below  their  fellows.  All  wildness,  all  fear  of 
man,  seemed  to  have  entirely  disappeared.  Men  and  boys 
reaching  over  the  sides  of  the  corral,  picked  up  a  jack 
in  each  hand,  holding  them  by  the  ears,  while  two  re- 
porters from  San  Francisco  papers  took  photographs  of 
the  scene.  The  noise  made  by  the  tens  of  thousands  of 
moving  bodies  was  as  the  noise  of  wind  in  a  forest,  while 
from  the  hot  and  sweating  mass  there  rose  a  strange  odor, 
penetrating,  ammoniacal,  savouring  of  wild  life. 

On  signal,  the  killing  began.  Dogs  that  had  been 
brought  there  for  that  purpose  when  let  into  the  corral 
refused,  as  had  been  half  expected,  to  do  the  work.  They 
snuffed  curiously  at  the  pile,  then  backed  off,  disturbed, 
perplexed.  But  the  men  and  boys — Portuguese  for  the 
most  part — were  more  eager.  Annixter  drew  Hilrna 
away,  and,  indeed,  most  of  the  people  set  about  the  bar- 
becue at  once. 

In  the  corral,  however,  the  killing  went  forward. 
Armed  with  a  club  in  each  hand,  the  young  fellows  from 
Guadalajara  and  Bonne ville,  and  the  farm  boys  from  the 
ranches,  leaped  over  the  rails  of  the  corral.  They  walked 
unsteadily  upon  the  myriad  of  crowding  bodies  under- 
foot, or,  as  space  was  cleared,  sank  almost  waist  deep  into 
the  mass  that  leaped  and  squirmed  about  them.  Blindly, 
furiously,  they  struck  and  struck.  The  Anglo-Saxon 
spectators  round  about  drew  back  in  disgust,  but  the  hotr 
degenerated  blood  of  Portuguese,  Mexican,  and  mixed 
Spaniard  boiled  up  in  excitement  at  this  wholesale 
slaughter. 

But  only  a  few  of  the  participants  of  the  drive  cared 


A  Story  of  California  503 

to  look  on.  All  the  guests  betook  themselves  some  quar- 
ter of  a  .mile  farther  on  into  the  hills. 

The  picnic  and  barbecue  were  to  be  held  around  the 
spring  where  Broderson  Creek  took  its  rise.  Already  two 
entire  beeves  were  roasting  there;  teams  were  hitched, 
saddles  removed,  and  men,  women,  and  children,  a  great 
throng,  spread  out  under  the  shade  of  the  live  oaks.  A 
vast  confused  clamour  rose  in  the  air,  a  babel  of  talk,  a' 
clatter  of  tin  plates,  of  knives  and  forks.  Bottles  were 
uncorked,  napkins  and  oil-cloths  spread  over  the  ground. 
The  men  lit  pipes  and  cigars,  the  women  seized  the  oc- 
casion to  nurse  their  babies. 

Osterman,  ubiquitous  as  ever,  resplendent  in  his  boots 
and  English  riding  breeches,  moved  about  between  the 
groups,  keeping  up  an  endless  flow  of  talk,  cracking 
jokes,  winking,  nudging,  gesturing,  putting  his  tongue 
in  his  cheek,  never  at  a  loss  for  a  reply,  playing  the  goat. 

"  That  josher,  Osterman,  always  at  his  monkey-shines, 
but  a  good  fellow  for  all  that ;  brainy  too.  Nothing 
stuck  up  about  him  either,  like  Magnus  Derrick." 

"  Everything  all  right,  Buck  ? "  inquired  Osterman, 
coming  up  to  where  Annixter,  Hilma  and  Mrs.  Derrick 
were  sitting  down  to  their  lunch. 

"  Yes,  yes,  everything  right.  But  we've  no  cork- 
screw." 

"  No  screw-cork — no  scare-crow?  Here  you  are," 
and  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  silver-plated  jack-knife 
with  a  cork-screw  attachment. 

Harran  and  Presley  came  up,  bearing  between  them 
a  great  smoking,  roasted  portion  of  beef  just  off  the  fire. 
Hilma  hastened  to  put  forward  a  huge  china  platter. 

Osterman  had  a  joke  to  crack  with  the  two  boys,  a 
joke  that  was  rather  broad,  but  as  he  turned  about,  the 
words  almost  on  his  lips,  his  glance  fell  upon  Hilma  her- 
self, whom  he  had  not  seen  for  more  than  two  months. 


504  The  Octopus 

She  had  handed  Presley  the  platter,  and  was  now  sitting 
with  her  back  against  the  tree,  between  two  boles  of  the 
roots.  The  position  was  a  little  elevated  and  the  support- 
ing roots  on  either  side  of  her  were  like  the  arms  of  a 
great  chair — a  chair  of  state.  She  sat  thus,,  as  on  a 
throne,  raised  above  the  rest,  the  radiance  of  the  unseen 
crown  of  motherhood  glowing  from  her  forehead,  the 
beauty  of  the  perfect  woman  surrounding  her  like  a 
glory. 

And  the  josh  died  away  on  Osterman's  lips,  and  un- 
consciously and  swiftly  he  bared  his  head.  Something 
was  passing  there  in  the  air  about  him  that  he  did  not 
understand,  something,  however,  that  imposed  reverence 
and  profound  respect.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  em- 
barrassment seized  upon  him,  upon  this  joker,  this  wearer 
of  clothes,  this  teller  of  funny  stories,  with  his  large,  red 
ears,  bald  head  and  comic  actor's  face.  He  stammered 
confusedly  and  took  himself  away,  for  the  moment  ab- 
stracted, serious,  lost  in  thought. 

By  now  everyone  was  eating.  It  was  the  feeding  of 
the  People,  elemental,  gross,  a  great  appeasing  of  appe- 
tite, an  enormous  quenching  of  thirst.  Quarters  of  beef, 
roasts,  ribs,  shoulders,  haunches  were  consumed,  loaves  of 
bread  by  the  thousands  disappeared,  whole  barrels  of 
wine  went  down  the  dry  and  dusty  throats  of  the  multi- 
tude. Conversation  lagged  while  the  People  ate,  while 
hunger  was  appeased.  Everybody  had  their  fill.  One 
ate  for  the  sake  of  eating,  resolved  that  there  should  be 
nothing  left,  considering  it  a  matter  of  pride  to  exhibit  a 
clean  plate. 

After  dinner,  preparations  were  made  for  games.  On  a 
flat  plateau  at  the  top  of  one  of  the  hills  the  contestants 
were  to  strive.  There  was  to  be  a  footrace  of  young  girls 
under  seventeen,  a  fat  men's  race,  the  younger  fellows 
were  to  put  the  shot,  to  compete  in  the  running  broad 


A  Story  of  California  505 

jump,  and  the  standing  high  jump,  in  the  hop,  skip,  and 
step  and  in  wrestling. 

Presley  was  delighted  with  it  all.  It  was  Homeric, 
this  feasting,  this  vast  consuming  of  meat  and  bread  and 
wine,  followed  now  by  games  of  strength.  An  epic  sim- 
plicity and  directness,  an  honest  Anglo-Saxon  mirth  and 
innocence,  commended  it.  Crude  it  was ;  coarse  it  was, 
but  no  taint  of  viciousness  was  here.  These  people  were 
good  people,  kindly,  benignant  even,  always  readier  to 
give  than  to  receive,  always  more  willing  to  help  than  to 
be  helped.  They  were  good  stock.  Of  such  was  the 
backbone  of  the  nation — sturdy  Americans  everyone  of 
them.  Where  else  in  the  world  round  were  such  strong, 
honest  men,  such  strong,  beautiful  women? 

Annixter,  Harran,  and  Presley  climbed  to  the  level 
plateau  where  the  games  were  to  be  held,  to  lay  out  the 
courses,  and  mark  the  distances.  It  was  the  very  place 
where  once  Presley  had  loved  to  lounge  entire  afternoons, 
reading  his  books  of  poems,  smoking  and  dozing.  From 
this  high  point  one  dominated  the  entire  valley  to  the 
south  and  west.  The  view  was  superb.  The  three  men 
paused  for  a  moment  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  to  consider  it. 

Young  Vacca  came  running  and  panting  up  the  hill 
after  them,  calling  for  Annixter. 

"Well,  well,  what  is  it?" 

"Mr.  Osterman's  looking  for  you,  sir,  you  and  Mr. 
Harran.  Vanamee,  that  cow-boy  over  at  Derrick's,  has 
just  come  from  the  Governor  with  a  message.  I  guess 
it's  important." 

"  Hello,  what's  up  now  ?  "  muttered  Annixter,  as  they 
turned  back. 

They  found  Osterman  saddling  his  horse  in  furious 
haste.  Near-by  him  was  Vanamee  holding  by  the  bridle 
an  animal  that  was  one  lather  of  sweat.  A  few  of  the 
picnickers  were  turning  their  heads  curiously  in  that  di- 


506  The  Octopus 

rection.  Evidently  something  of  moment  was  in  the 
wind. 

"  What's  all  up  ?  "  demanded  Annixter,  as  he  and  Har- 
ran,  followed  by  Presley,  drew  near. 

"  There's  hell  to  pay,"  exclaimed  Osterman  under  his 
breath.  "  Read  that.  Vanamee  just  brought  it." 

He  handed  Annixter  a  sheet  of  note  paper,  and  turned 
again  to  the  cinching  of  his  saddle. 

"  We've  got  to  be  quick,"  he  cried.  "  They've  stolen  a 
march  on  us." 

Annixter  read  the  note,  Harran  and  Presley  looking 
over  his  shoulder. 

"  Ah,  it's  them,  is  it,"  exclaimed  Annixter. 

Harran  set  his  teeth.     "  Now  for  it/'  he  exclaimed. 

"  They've  been  to  your  place  already,  Mr.  Annixter," 
said  Vanamee.  "I  passed  by  it  on  my  way  up.  They  have 
put  Delaney  in  possession,  and  have  set  all  your  furniture 
out  in  the  road." 

Annixter  turned  about,  his  lips  white.  Already  Presley 
and  Harran  had  run  to  their  horses. 

"  Vacca,"  cried  Annixter,  "  where's  Vacca  ?  Put  the 
saddle  on  the  buckskin,  quick.  Osterman,  get  as  many 
of  the  League  as  are  here  together  at  this  spot,  under- 
stand. I'll  be  back  in  a  minute.  I  must  tell  Hilma  this." 

Hooven  ran  up  as  Annixter  disappeared.  His  little 
eyes  were  blazing,  he  was  dragging  his  horse  with  him. 

"  Say,  dose  fellers  come,  hey  ?  Me,  I'm  alretty,  see  I 
hev  der  guhn." 

"They've  jumped  the  ranch,  little  girl,"  said  Annixter, 
putting  one  arm  around  Hilma.  "  They're  in  our  house 
now.  I'm  off.  Go  to  Derrick's  and  wait  for  me  there." 

She  put  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

"  You're  going  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  I  must.  Don't  be  frightened.  It  will  be  all  right. 
Go  to  Derrick's  and — good-bye." 


A  Story  of  California  507 

She  said  never  a  word.  She  looked  once  long  into  his 
eyes,  then  kissed  him  on  the  mouth. 

Meanwhile,  the  news  had  spread.  The  multitude  rose 
to  its  feet.  Women  and  men,  with  pale  faces,  looked  at 
each  other  speechless,  or  broke  forth  into  inarticulate 
exclamations.  A  strange,  unfamiliar  murmur  took  the 
place  of  the  tumultuous  gaiety  of  the  previous  mo- 
ments. A  sense  of  dread,  of  confusion,  of  impending- 
terror  weighed  heavily  in  the  air.  What  was  now. to 
happen? 

When  Annixter  got  back  to  Osterman,  he  found  a  num- 
ber of  the  Leaguers  already  assembled.  They  were  all 
mounted.  Hooven  was  there  and  Harran,  and  besides 
these,  Garnett  of  the  Ruby  ranch  and  Gethings  of  the 
San  Pablo,  Phelps  the  foreman  of  Los  Muertos,  and, 
last  of  all,  Dabney,  silent  as  ever,  speaking  to  no  one. 
Presley  came  riding  up. 

"  Best  keep  out  of  this,  Pres,"  cried  Annixter. 

"Are  we  ready?"  exclahned  Gethings. 

"  Ready,  ready,  we're  all  here." 

"  All.  Is  this  all  of  us  ?  "  cried  Annixter.  "  Where  are 
the  six  hundred  men  who  were  going  to  rise  when  this 
happened  ?  " 

They  had  wavered,  these  other  Leaguers.  Now,  when 
the  actual  crisis  impended,  they  were  smitten  with  con- 
fusion. Ah,  no,  they  were  not  going  to  stand  up  and  be 
shot  at  just  to  save  Derrick's  land.  They  were  not  armed. 
Wrhat  did  Annixter  and  Osterman  take  them  for?  No, 
sir ;  the  Railroad  had  stolen  a  march  on  them.  After  all 
his  big  talk  Derrick  had  allowed  them  to  be  taken  by  sur- 
prise. The  only  thing  to  do  was  to  call  a  meeting  of  the 
Executive  Committee.  That  was  the  only  thing.  As  for 
going  down  there  with  no  weapons  in  their  hands,  no,  sir. 
That  was  asking  a  little  too  much. 

"  Come  on,  then,  boys,"  shouted  Osterman,  turning  his 


508  The  Octopus 

back  on  the  others.  "  The  Governor  says  to  meet  him  at 
Hooven's.  We'll  make  for  the  Long  Trestle  and  strike 
the  trail  to  Hooven's  there." 

They  set  off.  It  was  a  terrible  ride.  Twice  during  the 
scrambling  descent  from  the  hills,  Presley's  pony  fell 
beneath  him.  Annixter,  on  his  buckskin,  and  Osterman, 
on  his  thoroughbred,  good  horsemen  both,  led  the  others, 
setting  a  terrific  pace.  The  hills  were  left  behind.  Bro- 
derson  Creek  was  crossed  and  on  the  levels  of  Quien 
Sabe,  straight  through  the  standing  wheat,  the  nine 
horses,  flogged  and  spurred,  stretched  out  to  their  ut- 
most. Their  passage  through  the  wheat  sounded  like  the 
rip  and  tear  of  a  gigantic  web  of  cloth.  The  landscape  on 
either  hand  resolved  itself  into  a  long  blur.  Tears  came 
to  the  eyes,  flying  pebbles,  clods  of  earth,  grains  of  wheat 
flung  up  in  the  flight,  stung  the  face  like  shot.  Oster- 
man's  thoroughbred  took  the  second  crossing  of  Broder- 
son's  Creek  in  a  single  leap.  Down  under  the  Long 
Trestle  tore  the  cavalcade  in  a  shower  of  mud  and 
gravel ;  up  again  on  the  further  bank,  the  horses  blowing 
like  steam  engines ;  on  into  the  trail  to  Hooven's,  single 
file  now,  Presley's  pony  lagging,  Hooven's  horse  bleed- 
ing at  the  eyes,  the  buckskin,  game  as  a  fighting  cock, 
catching  her  second  wind,  far  in  the  lead  now,  distancing 
even  the  English  thoroughbred  that  Osterman  rode. 

At  last  Hooven's  unpainted  house,  beneath  the  enor- 
mous live  oak  tree,  came  in  sight.  Across  the  Lower 
Road,  breaking  through  fences  and  into  the  yard  around 
the  house,  thundered  the  Leaguers.  Magnus  was  waiting 
for  them. 

The  riders  dismounted,  hardly  less  exhausted  than  their 
horses. 

"  Why,  where's  all  the  men  ?  "  Annixter  demanded  of 
Magnus. 

"  Broderson  is  here  and  Cutter,"  replied  the  Governor, 


A  Story  of  California  509 

"  no  one  else.  I  thought  you  would  bring  more  men  with 
you." 

"  There  are  only  nine  of  us." 

"And  the  six  hundred  Leaguers  who  were  going  to 
rise  when  this  happened !  "  exclaimed  Garnett,  bitterly. 

"  Rot  the  League,"  cried  Annixter.  "  It's  gone  to  pot 
— went  to  pieces  at  the  first  touch." 

"  We  have  been  taken  by  surprise,  gentlemen,  after  all," 
said  Magnus.  "Totally  off  our  guard.  But  there  are 
eleven  of  us.  It  is  enough." 

"Well,  what's  the  game?  Has  the  marshal  come? 
How  many  men  are  with  him  ?  " 

"  The  United  States  marshal  from  San  Francisco,"  ex- 
plained Magnus,  "came  down  early  this  morning  and! 
stopped  at  Guadalajara.  We  learned  it  all  through  our 
friends  in  Bonneville  about  an  hour  ago.  They  tele- 
phoned me  and  Mr.  Broderson.  S.  Behrman  met  him 
and  provided  about  a  dozen  deputies.  Delaney,  Ruggles, 
and  Christian  joined  them  at  Guadalajara.  They  left 
Guadalajara,  going  towards  Mr.  Annixter 's  ranch  house 
on  Quien  Sabe.  They  are  serving  the  writs  in  ejectment 
and  putting  the  dummy  buyers  in  possession.  They  are 
armed.  S.  Behrman  is  with  them." 

"  Where  are  they  now  ?  " 

"Cutter  is  watching  them  from  the  Long  Trestle.  They 
returned  to  Guadalajara.  They  are  there  now." 

"  Well,"  observed  Gethings,  "  from  Guadalajara  they 
can  only  go  to  two  places.  Either  they  will  take  the  Up- 
per Road  and  go  on  to  Osterman's  next,  or  they  will  take 
the  Lower  Road  to  Mr.  Derrick's." 

"  That  is  as  I  supposed,"  said  Magnus.  "  That  is  why 
I  wanted  you  to  come  here.  From  Hooven's,  here,  we 
can  watch  both  roads  simultaneously." 

"  Is  anybody  on  the  lookout  on  the  Upper  Road  ?  " 

"  Cutter.    He  is  on  the  Long  Trestle." 


510  The  Octopus 

"  Say,"  observed  Hooven,  the  instincts  of  the  old-time 
soldier  stirring  him,  "  say,  dose  feller  pretty  demn 
schmart,  I  tink.  We  got  to  put  some  picket  way  oudt 
bei  der  Lower  Roadt  alzoh,  und  he  tek  dose  glassus 
Mist'r  Ennixt'r  got  bei  urn.  Say,  look  at  dose  irregation 
ditsch.  Dot  ditsch  he  run  righd  across  both  dose  road, 
hey  ?  Dat's  some  fine  entrenchment,  you  bedt.  We  fighd 
um  from  dose  ditsch/' 

In  fact,  the  dry  irrigating  ditch  was  a  natural  trenchy 
admirably  suited  to  the  purpose,  crossing  both  roads  as 
Hooven  pointed  out  and  barring  approach  from  Guadala- 
jara to  all  the  ranches  save  Annixter's — which  had  al- 
ready been  seized. 

Gethings  departed  to  join  Cutter  on  the  Long  Trestle, 
while  Phelps  and  Harran,  taking  Annixter's  field  glasses 
with  them,  and  mounting  their  horses,  went  out  towards 
Guadalajara  on  the  Lower  Road  to  watch  for  the  mar- 
shal's approach  from  that  direction. 

After  the  outposts  had  left  them,  the  party  in  Hooven's 
cottage  looked  to  their  weapons.  Long  since,  every  mem- 
ber of  the  League  had  been  in  the  habit  of  carrying  his 
revolver  with  him.  They  were  all  armed  and,  in  addi- 
tion, Hooven  had  his  rifle.  Presley  alone  carried  no 
weapon. 

The  main  room  of  Hooven's  house,  in  which  the 
Leaguers  were  now  assembled,  was  barren,  poverty- 
stricken,  but  tolerably  clean.  An  old  clock  ticked  vocif- 
erously on  a  shelf.  In  one  corner  was  a  bed,  with  a 
patched,  faded  quilt.  In  the  centre  of  the  room,  strad- 
dling over  the  bare  floor,  stood  a  pine  table.  Around 
this  the  men  gathered,  two  or  three  occupying  chairs, 
Annixter  sitting  sideways  on  the  table,  the  rest  standing. 

"  I  believe,  gentlemen,"  said  Magnus,  "  that  we  can  go 
through  this  day  without  bloodshed.  I  believe  not  one 
shot  need  be  fired.  The  Railroad  will  not  force  the  issue, 


A  Story  of  California  511 

will  not  bring  about  actual  fighting.  When  the  marshal 
realises  that  we  are  thoroughly  in  earnest,  thoroughly 
determined,  I  am  convinced  that  he  will  withdraw." 

There  were  murmurs  o£  assent. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Annixter,  "  if  this  thing  can  by  any 
means  be  settled  peaceably,  I  say  let's  do  it,  so  long  as 
we  don't  give  in." 

The  others  stared.  Was  this  Annixter  who  spoke — 
the  Hotspur  of  the  League,  the  quarrelsome,  irascible 
fellow  who  loved  and  sought  a  quarrel  ?  Was  it  Annix- 
ter, who  now  had  been  the  first  and  only  one  of  them  all 
to  suffer,  whose  ranch  had  been  seized,  whose  household 
possessions  had  been  flung  out  into  the  road? 

"  When  you  come  right  down  to  it,"  he  continued, 
"  killing  a  man,  no  matter  what  he's  done  to  you,  is  a 
serious  business.  I  propose  we  make  one  more  attempt  to 
stave  this  thing  off.  Let's  see  if  we  can't  get  to  talk  with 
the  marshal  himself;  at  any  rate,  warn  him  of  the  dan- 
ger of  going  any  further.  Boys,  let's  not  fire  the  first 
shot.  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

The  others  agreed  unanimously  and  promptly ;  and  old 
Broderson,  tugging  uneasily  at  his  long  beard,  added : 

"  No — no — no  violence,  no  unnecessary  violence,  that 
is.  I  should  hate  to  have  innocent  blood  on  my  hands — • 
that  is,  if  it  is  innocent.  I  don't  know,  that  S.  Behrman 
— ah,  he  is  a — a — surely  he  had  innocent  blood  on  his 
head.  That  Dyke  affair,  terrible,  terrible ;  but  then  Dyke 
was  hi  the  wrong — driven  to  it,  though ;  the  Railroad  did 
drive  him  to  it  I  want  to  be  fair  and  just  to  every- 
body  " 

"  There's  a  team  coming  up  the  road  from  Los  Muer- 
tos,"  announced  Presley  from  the  door. 

"  Fair  and  just  to  everybody,"  murmured  old  Broder- 
son, wagging  his  head,  frowning  perplexedly.  "  I  don't 
want  to — to — to  harm  anybody  unless  they  harm  me." 


512  The  Octopus 

"Is  the  team  going  towards  Guadalajara?"  enquired 
Garnett,  getting  up  and  coming  to  the  door. 

"  Yes,  it's  a  Portuguese,  one  of  the  garden  truck  men." 

"  We  must  turn  him  back,"  declared  Osterman.  "  He 
can't  go  through  here.  We  don't  want  him  to  take  any 
news  on  to  the  marshal  and  S.  Behrman." 

"  I'll  turn  him  back/'  said  Presley. 

He  rode  out  towards  the  market  cart,  and  the  others, 
watching  from  the  road  in  front  of  Hooven's,  saw  him 
halt  it.  An  excited  interview  followed.  They  could  hear 
the  Portuguese  expostulating  volubly,  but  in  the  end  he 
turned  back. 

"  Martial  law  on  Los  Muertos,  isn't  it  ?  "  observed  Os- 
terman. "  Steady  all,"  he  exclaimed  as  he  turned  about, 
"  here  comes  Harran." 

Harran  rode  up  at  a  gallop.  The  others  surrounded 
him. 

"  I  saw  them,"  he  cried.  "  They  are  coming  this  way. 
S.  Behrman  and  Ruggles  are  in  a  two-horse  buggy.  All 
the  others  are  on  horseback.  There  are  eleven  of  them. 
Christian  and  Delaney  are  with  them.  Those  two  have 
rifles.  I  left  Hooven  watching  them." 

"  Better  call  in  Gethings  and  Cutter  right  away,"  said 
Annixter.  "  We'll  need  all  our  men." 

"  I'll  call  them  in,"  Presley  volunteered  at  once.  "  Can 
I  have  the  buckskin?  My  pony  is  about  done  up." 

He  departed  at  a  brisk  gallop,  but  on  the  way  met 
Gethings  and  Cutter  returning.  They,  too,  from  their 
elevated  position,  had  observed  the  marshal's  party  leav- 
ing Guadalajara  by  the  Lower  Road.  Presley  told  them 
of  the  decision  of  the  Leaguers  not  to  fire  until  fired 
upon. 

"All  right,"  said  Gethings.  "But  if  it  comes  to  a 
gun-fight,  that  means  it's  all  up  with  at  least  one  of  us. 
Delaney  never  misses  his  man." 


A  Story  of  California  513 

When  they  reached  Hooven's  again,  they  found  that 
the  Leaguers  had  already  taken  their  position  in  the  ditch. 
The  plank  bridge  across  it  had  been  torn  up.  Magnus, 
two  long  revolvers  lying  on  the  embankment  in  front  of 
him,  was  in  the  middle,  Harran  at  his  side.  On  either 
side,  some  five  feet  intervening  between  each  man,  stood 
the  other  Leaguers,  their  revolvers  ready.  Dabney,  the 
silent  old  man,  had  taken  off  his  coat. 

"Take  your  places  between  Mr.  Osterman  and  Mr. 
Broderson,"  said  Magnus,  as  the  three  men  rode  up. 
"  Presley,"  he  added,  "  I  forbid  you  to  take  any  part  in 
this  affair." 

"  Yes,  keep  him  out  of  it,"  cried  Annixter  from  his  po- 
sition at  the  extreme  end  of  the  line.  "  Go  back  to 
Hooven's  house,  Pres,  and  look  after  the  horses,"  he 
added.  "This  is  no  business  of  yours.  And  keep  the 
road  behind  us  clear.  Don't  let  any  one  come  near,  not 
any  one,  understand  ?  " 

Presley  withdrew,  leading  the  buckskin  and  the  horses 
that  Gethings  and  Cutter  had  ridden.  He  fastened  them 
under  the  great  live  oak  and  then  came  out  and  stood  in 
the  road  in  front  of  the  house  to  watch  what  was  going  on. 

In  the  ditch,  shoulder  deep,  the  Leaguers,  ready,  watch- 
ful, waited  in  silence,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  white  shim- 
mer of  the  road  leading  to  Guadalajara. 

"  Where's  Hooven  ?  "  enquired  Cutter. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Osterman  replied.  "  He  was  out 
watching  the  Lower  Road  with  Harran  Derrick.  Oh, 
Harran,"  he  called,  "  isn't  Hooven  coming  in  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  is  waiting  for,"  answered  Har- 
ran. "  He  was  to  have  come  in  just  after  me.  He 
thought  maybe  the  marshal's  party  might  make  a  feint 
in  this  direction,  then  go  around  by  the  Upper  Road,  af- 
ter all.  He  wanted  to  watch  them  a  little  longer.  But  he 
ought  to  be  here  now." 


514  The  Octopus 

"  Think  he'll  take  a  shot  at  them  on  his  own  account  ?  * 

"  Oh,  no,  he  wouldn't  do  that." 

"  Maybe  they  took  him  prisoner." 

"  Well,  that's  to  be  thought  of,  too." 

Suddenly  there  was  a  cry.  Around  the  bend  of  the 
road  in  front  of  them  came  a  cloud  of  dust.  From  it 
emerged  a  horse's  head. 

"Hello,  hello,  there's  something." 

"Remember,  we  are  not  to  fire  first." 

"Perhaps  that's  Hooven;  I  can't  see.  Is  it?  There 
only  seems  to  be  one  horse." 

"  Too  much  dust  for  one  horse." 

Annixter,  who  had  taken  his  field  glasses  from  Har- 
ran,  adjusted  them  to  his  eyes. 

"  That's  not  them,"  he  announced  presently,  "  nor 
Hooven  either.  That's  a  cart."  Then  after  another 
moment,  he  added,  "  The  butcher's  cart  from  Guadala- 
jara." 

The  tension  was  relaxed.  The  men  drew  long  breaths, 
settling  back  in  their  places. 

"  Do  we  let  him  go  on,  Governor  ?  " 

"  The  bridge  is  down.  He  can't  go  by  and  we  must 
not  let  him  go  back.  We  shall  have  to  detain  him  and 
question  him.  I  wonder  the  marshal  let  him  pass." 

The  cart  approached  at  a  lively  trot. 

"Anybody  else  in  that  cart,  Mr.  Annixter?"  asked 
Magnus.  "  Look  carefully.  It  may  be  a  ruse.  It  is 
strange  the  marshal  should  have  let  him  pass." 

The  Leaguers  roused  themselves  again.  Osterman  laid 
his  hand  on  his  revolver. 

"  No/'  called  Annixter,  in  another  instant,  "  no,  there's 
only  one  man  in  it." 

The  cart  came  up,  and  Cutter  and  Phelps,  clambering 
from  the  ditch,  stopped  it  as  it  arrived  in  front  of  the 
party. 


A  Story  of  California  51$ 

"  Hey— what — what  ?  "  exclaimed  the  young  butcher, 
pulling  up.  "  Is  that  bridge  broke?  " 

But  at  the  idea  of  being  held,  the  boy  protested  at  top 
voice,  badly  frightened,  bewildered,  not  knowing  what 
was  to  happen  next. 

"  No,  no,  I  got  my  meat  to  deliver.  Say,  you  let  me 
go.  Say,  I  ain't  got  nothing  to  do  with  you." 

He  tugged  at  the  reins,  trying  to  turn  the  cart  about. 
Cutter,  with  his  jack-knife,  parted  the  reins  just  back  of 
the  bit. 

"  You'll  stay  where  you  are,  m'  son,  for  a  while.  We're 
not  going  to  hurt  you.  But  you  are  not  going  back  to 
town  till  we  say  so.  Did  you  pass  anybody  on  the  road 
out  of  town  ?  " 

In  reply  to  the  Leaguers'  questions,  the  young  butchef 
at  last  told  them  he  had  passed  a  two-horse  buggy  and  a 
lot  of  men  on  horseback  just  beyond  the  railroad  tracks. 
They  were  headed  for  Los  Muertos. 

"  That's  them,  all  right,"  muttered  Annixter.  "  They're 
coming  by  this  road,  sure." 

The  butcher's  horse  and  cart  were  led  to  one  side  oi 
the  road,  and  the  horse  tied  to  the  fence  with  one  of  the 
severed  lines.  The  butcher,  himself,  was  passed  over  to 
Presley,  who  locked  him  in  Hooven's  barn. 

"  Well,  what  the  devil,"  demanded  Osterman,  "  has 
become  of  Bismarck  ?  " 

In  fact,  the  butcher  had  seen  nothing  of  Hooven.  The 
minutes  were  passing,  and  still  he  failed  to  appear. 

"  What's  he  up  to,  anyways  ?  " 

"  Bet  you  what  you  like,  they  caught  him.  Just  like 
that  crazy  Dutchman  to  get  excited  and  go  too  near.  You 
can  always  depend  on  Hooven  to  lose  his  head." 

Five  minutes  passed,  then  ten.  The  road  towards 
Guadalajara  lay  empty,  baking  and  white  under  the 
sun. 


516  The  Octopus 

"  Well,  the  marshal  and  S.  Behrman  don't  seem  to  be 
in  any  hurry,  either." 

"  Shall  I  go  forward  and  reconnoitre,  Governor  ? " 
asked  Harran. 

But  Dabney,  who  stood  next  to  Annixter,  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder  and,  without  speaking,  pointed  down  the 
road.  Annixter  looked,  then  suddenly  cried  out : 

"  Here  comes  Hooven." 

The  German  galloped  into  sight,  around  the  turn  of 
the  road,  his  rifle  laid  across  his  saddle.  He  came  on  rap- 
idly, pulled  up,  and  dismounted  at  the  ditch. 

"  Dey're  commen,"  he  cried,  trembling  with  excitement. 
"  I  watch  um  long  dime  bei  der  side  oaf  der  roadt  in  der 
busches.  Dey  shtop  bei  der  gate  oder  side  der  relroadt 
trecks  and  talk  long  dime  mit  one  n'udder.  Den  dey 
gome  on.  Dey're  gowun  sure  do  zum  monkey-doodle 
pizeness.  Me,  I  see  Gritschun  put  der  kertridges  in  his 
guhn.  I  tink  dey  gowun  to  gome  my  blace  first.  Dey 
gowun  to  try  put  me  off,  tek  my  home,  bei  Gott." 

"  All  right,  get  down  in  here  and  keep  quiet,  Hooven. 
Don't  fire  unless " 

"  Here  they  are." 

A  half-dozen  voices  uttered  the  cry  at  once. 

There  could  be  no  mistake  this  time.  A  buggy, 
drawn  by  two  horses,  came  into  view  around  the  curve  of 
the  road.  Three  riders  accompanied  it,  and  behind  these, 
seen  at  intervals  in  a  cloud  of  dust  were  two — three — 
five — six  others. 

This,  then,  was  S.  Behrman  with  the  United  States 
marshal  and  his  posse.  The  event  that  had  been  so  long 
in  preparation,  the  event  which  it  had  been  said  would 
never  come  to  pass,  the  last  trial  of  strength,  the  last 
fight  between  the  Trust  and  the  People,  the  direct,  brutal 
grapple  of  armed  men,  the  law  defied,  the  Government 
ignored,  behold,  here  it  was  close  at  hand. 


A  Story  of  California  5 1 7 

Osterman  cocked  his  revolver,  and  in  the  profound  si- 
lence that  had  fallen  upon  the  scene,  the  click  was  plainly 
audible  from  end  to  end  of  the  line. 

"  Remember  our  agreement,  gentlemen,"  cried  Mag- 
nus, in  a  warning  voice.  "  Mr.  Osterman,  I  must  ask 
you  to  let  down  the  hammer  of  your  weapon." 

No  one  answered.  In  absolute  quiet,  standing  motion- 
less in  their  places,  the  Leaguers  watched  the  approach 
of  the  marshal. 

Five  minutes  passed.  The  riders  came  on  steadily. 
They  drew  nearer.  The  grind  of  the  buggy  wheels  in  the 
grit  and  dust  of  the  road,  and  the  prolonged  clatter  of  the 
horses'  feet  began  to  make  itself  heard.  The  Leaguers 
could  distinguish  the  faces  of  their  enemies. 

In  the  buggy  were  S.  Behrman  and  Cyrus  Ruggles,  the 
latter  driving.  A  tall  man  in  a  frock  coat  and  slouched 
hat — the  marshal,  beyond  question — rode  at  the  left  of  the 
buggy;  Delaney,  carrying  a  Winchester,  at  the  right. 
Christian,  the  real  estate  broker,  S.  Behrman's  cousin,  also 
with  a  rifle,  could  be  made  out  just  behind  the  marshal. 
Back  of  these,  riding  well  up,  was  a  group  of  horse- 
men, indistinguishable  in  the  dust  raised  by  the  buggy's 
wheels. 

Steadily  the  distance  between  the  Leaguers  and  the 
posse  diminished. 

"  Don't  let  them  get  too  close,  Governor,"  whispered 
Harran. 

When  S.  Behrman's  buggy  was  about  one  hundred 
yards  distant  from  the  irrigating  ditch,  Magnus  sprang 
out  upon  the  road,  leaving  his  revolvers  behind  him.  He 
beckoned  Garnett  and  Gethings  to  follow,  and  the  three 
ranchers,  who,  with  the  exception  of  Broderson,  were 
the  oldest  men  present,  advanced,  without  arms,  to  meet 
the  marshal. 

Magnus  cried  aloud : 


518  The  Octopus 

*'  Halt  where  you  are." 

From  their  places  in  the  ditch,  Annixter,  Osterman, 
Dabney,  Harran,  Hooven,  Broderson,  Cutter,  and 
Phelps,  their  hands  laid  upon  their  revolvers,  watched 
silently,  alert,  keen,  ready  for  anything. 

At  the  Governor's  words,  they  saw  Ruggles  pull 
sharply  on  the  reins.  The  buggy  came  to  a  standstill,  the 
riders  doing  likewise.  Magnus  approached  the  marshal, 
still  followed  by  Garnett  and  Gethings,  and  began  to 
speak.  His  voice  was  audible  to  the  men  in  the  ditch,  but 
his  words  could  not  be  made  out.  They  heard  the  mar- 
shal reply  quietly  enough  and  the  two  shook  hands.  De- 
laney  came  around  from  the  side  of  the  buggy,  his  horse 
standing  before  the  team  across  the  road.  He  leaned 
from  the  saddle,  listening  to  what  was  being  said,  but 
made  no  remark.  From  time  to  time,  S.  Behrman  and 
Ruggles,  from  their  seats  in  the  buggy,  interposed  a 
sentence  or  two  into  the  conversation,  but  at  first,  so  far 
as  the  Leaguers  could  discern,  neither  Magnus  nor  the 
marshal  paid  them  any  attention.  They  saw,  however, 
that  the  latter  repeatedly  shook  his  head  and  once  they 
heard  him  exclaim  in  a  loud  voice : 

"  I  only  know  my  duty,  Mr.  Derrick." 

Then  Gethings  turned  about,  and  seeing  Delaney  close 
at  hand,  addressed  an  unheard  remark  to  him.  The  cow- 
puncher  replied  curtly  and  the  words  seemed  to  anger 
Gethings.  He  made  a  gesture,  pointing  back  to  the 
ditch,  showing  the  intrenched  Leaguers  to  the  posse. 
Delaney  appeared  to  communicate  the  news  that  the 
Leaguers  were  on  hand  and  prepared  to  resist,  to  the 
other  members  of  the  party.  They  all  looked  toward 
the  ditch  and  plainly  saw  the  ranchers  there,  standing  to 
their  arms. 

But  meanwhile  Ruggles  had  addressed  himself  more 
directly  to  Magnus,  and  between  the  two  an  angry  dis- 


A  Story  of  California  519 

cussion  was  going  forward.  Once  even  Harran  heard 
his  father  exclaim: 

"  The  statement  is  a  lie  and  no  one  knows  it  better  than 
yourself." 

"  Here,"  growled  Annixter  to  Dabney,  who  stood 
next  him  in  the  ditch,  "  those  fellows  are  getting  too 
close.  Look  at  them  edging  up.  Don't  Magnus  see 
that?" 

The  ether  members  of  the  marshal's  force  had  come 
forward  from  their  places  behind  the  buggy  and  were 
spread  out  across  the  road.  Some  of  them  were  gath- 
ered about  Magnus,  Garnett,  and  Gethings ;  and  some 
were  talking  together,  looking  and  pointing  towards  the 
ditch.  Whether  acting  upon  signal  or  not,  the  Leaguers 
in  the  ditch  could  not  tell,  but  it  was  certain  that  one  or 
two  of  the  posse  had  moved  considerably  forward.  Be- 
sides this,  Delaney  had  now  placed  his  horse  between 
Magnus  and  the  ditch,  and  two  others  riding  up  from 
the  rear  had  followed  his  example.  The  posse  sur- 
rounded the  three  ranchers,  and  by  now,  everybody  was 
talking  at  once. 

"  Look  here,"  Harran  called  to  Annixter,  "  this  won't 
do.  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  this  thing.  They  all  seem 
to  be  edging  up,  and  before  we  know  it  they  may  take 
the  Governor  and  the  other  men  prisoners." 

"  They  ought  to  come  back,"  declared  Annixter. 

"  Somebody  ought  to  tell  them  that  those  fellows  are 
creeping  up." 

By  now,  the  angry  argument  between  the  Governor 
and  Ruggles  had  become  more  heated  than  ever.  Their 
voices  were  raised ;  now  and  then  they  made  furious 
gestures. 

"They  ought  to  come  back,"  cried  Osterman.  "We 
couldn't  shoot  now  if  anything  should  happen,  for  fear 
of  hitting  them." 


520  The  Octopus 

"Well,  it  sounds  as  though  something  were  going  to 
happen  pretty  soon." 

They  could  hear  Gethings  and  Delaney  wrangling 
furiously;  another  deputy  joined  in. 

"  I'm  going  to  call  the  Governor  back,"  exclaimed  An- 
nixter,  suddenly  clambering  out  of  the  ditch. 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Osterman,  "  keep  in  the  ditch.  They 
can't  drive  us  out  if  we  keep  here/' 

Hooven  and  Harran,  who  had  instinctively  followed 
Annixter,  hesitated  at  Osterman's  words  and  the  three 
halted  irresolutely  on  the  road  before  the  ditch,  their 
weapons  in  their  hands. 

"  Governor,"  shouted  Harran,  "  come  on  back.  You 
can't  do  anything." 

Still  the  wrangle  continued,  and  one  of  the  deputies, 
advancing  a  little  from  out  the  group,  cried  out : 

"  Keep  back  there !    Keep  back  there,  you !  " 

"  Go  to  hell,  will  you  ?  "  shouted  Harran  on  the  instant. 
"  You're  on  my  land." 

"  Oh,  come  back  here,  Harran,"  called  Osterman. 
"  That  ain't  going  to  do  any  good/' 

"  There — listen,"  suddenly  exclaimed  Harran.  "  The 
Governor  is  calling  us.  Come  on ;  I'm  going." 

Osterman  got  out  of  the  ditch  and  came  forward,  catch- 
ing Harran  by  the  arm  and  pulling  him  back. 

"  He  didn't  call.  Don't  get  excited.  You'll  ruin 
everything.  Get  back  into  the  ditch  again." 

But  Cutter,  Phelps,  and  the  old  man  Dabney,  misun- 
derstanding what  was  happening,  and  seeing  Osterman 
leave  the  ditch,  had  followed  his  example.  All  the 
Leaguers  were  now  out  of  the  ditch,  and  a  little  way 
down  the  road,  Hooven,  Osterman,  Annixter,  and  Har- 
ran in  front,  Dabney,  Phelps,  and  Cutter  coming  up  from 
behind. 

"  Keep  back,  you,"  cried  the  deputy  again. 


A  Story  of  California  521 

In  the  group  around  S.  Behrman's  buggy,  Gethings 
and  Delaney  were  yet  quarrelling,  and  the  angry  debate 
between  Magnus,  Garnett,  and  the  marshal  still  con- 
tinued. 

Till  this  moment,  the  real  estate  broker,  Christian,  had 
taken  no  part  in  the  argument,  but  had  kept  himself  in 
the  rear  of  the  buggy.  Now,  however,  he  pushed  for- 
ward. There  was  but  little  room  for  him  to  pass,  and, 
as  he  rode  by  the  buggy,  his  horse  scraped  his  flank 
against  the  hub  of  the  wheel.  The  animal  recoiled 
sharply,  and,  striking  against  Garnett,  threw  him  to  the 
ground.  Delaney's  horse  stood  between  the  buggy  and 
the  Leaguers  gathered  on  the  road  in  front  of  the  ditch ; 
the  incident,  indistinctly  seen  by  them,  was  misinter- 
preted. 

Garnett  had  not  yet  risen  when  Hooven  raised  a  great 
shout : 

"  Hoch,  dcr  Kaiser!   Hoch,  der  Vaterland!  " 

With  the  words,  he  dropped  to  one  knee,  and  sighting 
his  rifle  carefully,  fired  into  the  group  of  men  around 
the  buggy. 

Instantly  the  revolvers  and  rifles  seemed  to  go  off  of 
themselves.  Both  sides,  deputies  and  Leaguers,  opened 
fire  simultaneously.  At  first,  it  was  nothing  but  a  con- 
fused roar  of  explosions;  then  the  roar  lapsed  to  an 
irregular,  quick  succession  of  reports,  shot  leaping  after 
shot;  then  a  moment's  silence,  and,  last  of  all,  regular 
as  clock-ticks,  three  shots  at  exact  intervals.  Then  still- 
ness. 

Delaney,  shot  through  the  stomach,  slid  down  from 
his  horse,  and,  on  his  hands  and  knees,  crawled  from 
the  road  into  the  standing  wheat.  Christian  fell  back- 
ward from  the  saddle  toward  the  buggy,  and  hung  sus- 
pended in  that  position,  his  head  and  shoulders  on  the 
wheel,  one  stiff  leg  still  across  his  saddle.  Hooven,  in 


522  The  Octopus 

attempting  to  rise  from  his  kneeling  position,  received  a 
rifle  ball  squarely  in  the  throat,  and  rolled  forward  upon 
his  face.  Old  Broderson,  crying  out,  "  Oh,  they've  shot 
me,  boys,"  staggered  sideways,  his  head  bent,  his  hands 
rigid  at  his  sides,  and  fell  into  the  ditch.  Osterman, 
blood  running  from  his  mouth  and  nose,  turned  about 
and  walked  back.  Presley  helped  him  across  the  irri- 
gating ditch  and  Osterman  laid  himself  down,  his  head 
on  his  folded  arms.  Harran  Derrick  dropped  where  he 
stood,  turning  over  on  his  face,  and  lay  motionless,  groan- 
ing terribly,  a  pool  of  blood  forming  under  his  stomach. 
The  old  man  Dabney,  silent  as  ever,  received  his  death, 
speechless.  He  fell  to  his  knees,  got  up  again,  fell  once 
more,  and  died  without  a  word.  Annixter,  instantly 
killed,  fell  his  length  to  the  ground,  and  lay  without 
movement,  just  as  he  had  fallen,  one  arm  across  his  face. 


VII 


On  their  way  to  Derrick's  ranch  house,  Hilma  and 
Mrs.  Derrick  heard  the  sounds  of  distant  firing. 

"  Stop ! "  cried  Hilma,  laying  her  hand  upon  young 
Vacca's  arm.  "  Stop  the  horses.  Listen,  what  was 
that?" 

The  carry-all  came  to  a  halt  and  from  far  away  across 
the  rustling  wheat  came  the  faint  rattle  of  rifles  and 
revolvers. 

"  Say,"  cried  Vacca,  rolling  his  eyes,  "  oh,  say,  they're 
fighting  over  there." 

Mrs.  Derrick  put  her  hands  over  her  face. 

"  Fighting,"  she  cried,  "  oh,  oh,  it's  terrible.  Magnus 
is  there — and  Harran." 

"  Where  do  you  think  it  is  ?  "  demanded  Hilma. 

"  That's  over  toward  Hooven's." 

"  I'm  going.    Turn  back.    Drive  to  Hooven's,  quick." 

"  Better  not,  Mrs.  Annixter,"  protested  the  young  man. 
"  Mr.  Annixter  said  we  were  to  go  to  Derrick's.  Better 
keep  away  from  Hooven's  if  there's  trouble  there.  We 
wouldn't  get  there  till  it's  all  over,  anyhow." 

"Yes,  yes,  let's  go  home,"  cried  Mrs.  Derrick,  "I'm 
afraid.  Oh,  Hilma,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Come  with  me  to  Hooven's  then." 

"  There,  where  they  are  fighting?  Oh,  I  couldn't.  I — • 
I  can't.  It  would  be  all  over  before  we  got  there  as  Mr. 
Vacca  says." 

"  Sure,"  repeated  young  Vacca. 

"  Drive  to  Hooven's/'  commanded  Hilma.     "  If  you 


524  The  Octopus 

won't,  I'll  walk  there."  She  threw  off  the  lap-robes, 
preparing  to  descend.  "  And  you,"  she  exclaimed,  turn- 
ing to  Mrs.  Derrick,  "  how  can  you — when  Harran  and 
your  husband  may  be — may — are  in  danger." 

Grumbling,  Vacca  turned  the  carry-all  about  and  drove 
across  the  open  fields  till  he  reached  the  road  to  Guadala- 
jara, just  below  the  Mission. 

"Hurry!"  cried  Hilma. 

The  horses  started  forward  under  the  touch  of  the 
whip.  The  ranch  houses  of  Quien  Sabe  came  in  sight. 

"  Do  you  want  to  stop  at  the  house  ?  "  inquired  Vacca 
over  his  shoulder. 

"  No,  no ;  oh,  go  faster — make  the  horses  run." 

They  dashed  through  the  houses  of  the  Home  ranch. 

"  Oh,  oh,"  cried  Hilma  suddenly,  "  look,  look  there. 
Look  what  they  have  done." 

Vacca  pulled  the  horses  up,  for  the  road  in  front  of 
Annixter's  house  was  blocked. 

A  vast,  confused  heap  of  household  effects  was  there 
— chairs,  sofas,  pictures,  fixtures,  lamps.  Hilma's  little 
home  had  been  gutted ;  everything  had  been  taken  from  it 
and  ruthlessly  flung  out  upon  the  road,  everything  that 
she  and  her  husband  had  bought  during  that  wonderful 
week  after  their  marriage.  Here  was  the  white  enamelled 
"  set "  of  the  bedroom  furniture,  the  three  chairs,  wash- 
stand  and  bureau, — the  bureau  drawers  falling  out,  spill- 
ing their  contents  into  the  dust;  there  were  the  white 
wool  rugs  of  the  sitting-room,  the  flower  stand,  with  its 
pots  all  broken,  its  flowers  wilting ;  the  cracked  goldfish 
globe,  the  fishes  already  dead ;  the  rocking  chair,  the 
sewing  machine,  the  great  round  table  of  yellow  oak,  the 
lamp  with  its  deep  shade  of  crinkly  red  tissue  paper,  the 
pretty  tinted  photographs  that  had  hung  on  the  wall — 
the  choir  boys  with  beautiful  eyes,  the  pensive  young 
girls  in  pink  gowns — the  pieces  .of  wood  carving  that 


A  Story  of  California  525 

represented  quails  and  ducks,  and,  last  of  all,  its  curtains 
of  crisp,  clean  muslin,  cruelly  torn  and  crushed — the 
bed,  the  wonderful  canopied  bed  so  brave  and  gay,  of 
which  Hilma  had  been  so  proud,  thrust  out  there  into  the 
common  road,  torn  from  its  place,  from  the  discreet  inti- 
macy of  her  bridal  chamber,  violated,  profaned,  flung 
out  into  the  dust  and  garish  sunshine  for  all  men  to  stare 
at,  a  mockery  and  a  shame. 

To  Hilma  it  was  as  though  something  of  herself,  of 
her  person,  had  been  thus  exposed  and  degraded ;  all  that 
she  held  sacred  pilloried,  gibbeted,  and  exhibited  to  the 
world's  derision.  Tears  of  anguish  sprang  to  her  eyes,  a 
red  flame  of  outraged  modesty  overspread  her  face. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  a  sob  catching  her  throat,  "  oh,  how 
could  they  do  it  ?  "  But  other  fears  intruded ;  other 
greater  terrors  impended. 

"  Go  on,"  she  cried  to  Vacca,  "  go  on  quickly." 

But  Vacca  would  go  no  further.  He  had  seen  what 
had  escaped  Hilma's  attention,  two  men,  deputies,  no 
doubt,  on  the  porch  of  the  ranch  house.  They  held  pos- 
session there,  and  the  evidence  of  the  presence  of  the 
enemy  in  this  raid  upon  Quien  Sabe  had  daunted  him. 

"  No,  sir"  he  declared,  getting  out  of  the  carry-all,  "  I 
ain't  going  to  take  you  anywhere  where  you're  liable  to 
get  hurt.  Besides,  the  road's  blocked  by  all  this  stuff. 
You  can't  get  the  team  by." 

Hilma  sprang  from  the  carry-all. 

"  Come,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Derrick. 

The  older  woman,  trembling,  hesitating,  faint  with 
dread,  obeyed,  and  Hilma,  picking  her  way  through  and 
around  the  wreck  of  her  home,  set  off  by  the  trail  to- 
wards the  Long  Trestle  and  Hooven's. 

When  she  arrived,  she  found  the  road  in  front  of  the 
German's  house,  and,  indeed,  all  the  surrounding  yard, 
crowded  with  people.  An  overturned  buggy  lay  on  the 


526  The  Octopus 

side  of  the  road  in  the  distance,  its  horses  in  a  tangle  of 
harness,  held  by  two  or  three  men.  She  saw  Caraher's 
buckboard  under  the  live  oak  and  near  it  a  second  buggy 
which  she  recognised  as  belonging  to  a  doctor  in  Guada- 
lajara. 

"  Oh,  what  has  happened ;  oh,  what  has  happened  ?  " 
moaned  Mrs.  Derrick. 

"  Come/'  repeated  Hilma.  The  young  girl  took  her  by 
the  hand  and  together  they  pushed  their  way  through  the 
crowd  of  men  and  women  and  entered  the  yard. 

The  throng  gave  way  before  the  two  women,  parting 
to  right  and  left  without  a  word. 

"  Presley,"  cried  Mrs.  Derrick,  as  she  caught  sight  of 
him  in  the  doorway  of  the  house,  "  oh,  Presley,  what  has 
happened?  Is  Harran  safe?  Is  Magnus  safe?  Where 
are  they?" 

"  Don't  go  in,  Mrs.  Derrick,"  said  Presley,  coming  for- 
ward, "  don't  go  in." 

"  Where  is  my  husband  ?  "  demanded  Hilma. 

Presley  turned  away  and  steadied  himself  against  the 
jamb  of  the  door. 

Hilma,  leaving  Mrs.  Derrick,  entered  the  house.  The 
front  room  was  full  of  men.  She  was  dimly  conscious  of 
Cyrus  Ruggles  and  S.  Behrman,  both  deadly  pale,  talking 
earnestly  and  in  whispers  to  Cutter  and  Phelps.  There 
was  a  strange,  acrid  odour  of  an  unfamiliar  drug  in  the 
air.  On  the  table  before  her  was  a  satchel,  surgical  in- 
struments, rolls  of  bandages,  and  a  blue,  oblong  paper 
box  full  of  cotton.  But  above  the  hushed  noises  of  voices 
and  footsteps,  one  terrible  sound  made  itself  heard — the 
prolonged,  rasping  sound  of  breathing,  half  choked, 
laboured,  agonised. 

"  Where  is  my  husband?"  she  cried.  She  pushed  the 
men  aside.  She  saw  Magnus,  bareheaded,  three  or  four 
men  lying  on  the  floor,  one  half  naked,  his  body  swathed 


A  Story  of  California  527 

in  white  bandages;  the  doctor  in  shirt  sleeves,  on  one 
knee  beside  a  figure  of  a  man  stretched  out  beside  him. 
Garnett  turned  a  white  face  to  her. 
"  Where  is  my  husband  ?  " 

The  other  did  not  reply,  but  stepped  aside  and  Hilma 
saw  the  dead  body  of  her  husband  lying  upon  the  bed. 
She  did  not  cry  out.  She  said  no  word.  She  went  to  the 
bed,  and  sitting  upon  it,  took  Annixter's  head  in  her  lap, 
holding  it  gently  between  her  hands.  Thereafter  she  did 
not  move,  but  sat  holding  her  dead  husband's  head  in  her 
lap,  looking  vaguely  about  from  face  to  face  of  those  in 
the  room,  while,  without  a  sob,  without  a  cry,  the  great 
tears  filled  her  wide-opened  eyes  and  rolled  slowly  down 
upon  her  cheeks. 

On  hearing  that  his  wife  was  outside,  Magnus  came 
quickly  forward.  She  threw  herself  into  his  arms. 

"  Tell  me,  tell  me,"  she  cried,  "  is  Harran — is " 

"  We  don't  know  yet,"  he  answered.  "  Oh,  Annie- 
Then  suddenly  the  Governor  checked  himself.    He,  the 
indomitable,  could  not  break  down  now. 

"  The  doctor  is  with  him,"  he  said ;  "  we  are  doing 
all  we  can.  Try  and  be  brave,  Annie.  There  is  always 
hope.  This  is  a  terrible  day's  work.  God  forgive  us 
all." 

She  pressed  forward,  but  he  held  her  back. 
"  No,  don't  see  him  now.    Go  into  the  next  room.    Gar- 
nett, take  care  of  her." 

But  she  would  not  be  denied.  She  pushed  by  Magnus, 
and,  breaking  through  the  group  that  surrounded  her 
son,  sank  on  her  knees  beside  him,  moaning,  in  compas- 
sion and  terror. 

Harran  lay  straight  and  rigid  upon  the  floor,  his  head 
propped  by  a  pillow,  his  coat  that  had  been  taken  off 
spread  over  his  chest.  One  leg  of  his  trousers  was 
soaked  through  and  through  with  blood.  His  eyes  were 


528  The  Octopus 

half -closed,  and  with  the  regularity  of  a  machine,  the 
eyeballs  twitched  and  twitched.  His  face  was  so  white 
that  it  made  his  yellow  hair  look  brown,  while  from  his 
opened  mouth,  there  issued  that  loud  and  terrible  sound 
of  guttering,  rasping,  laboured  breathing  that  gagged 
and  choked  and  gurgled  with  every  inhalation. 

"  Oh,  Harrie,  Harrie,"  called  Mrs.  Derrick,  catching  at 
one  of  his  hands. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"  He  is  unconscious,  Mrs.  Derrick." 

"  Where  was  he — where  is — the — the " 

"  Through  the  lungs." 

"  Will  he  get  well  ?    Tell  me  the  truth." 

"  I  don't  know,  Mrs.  Derrick." 

She  had  all  but  fainted,  and  the  old  rancher,  Garnett, 
half-carrying,  half-leading  her,  took  her  to  the  one  ad- 
joining room — Minna  Hooven's  bedchamber.  Dazed, 
numb  with  fear,  she  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
rocking  herself  back  and  forth,  murmuring: 

"  Harrie,  Harrie,  oh,  my  son,  my  little  boy." 

In  the  outside  room,  Presley  came  and  went,  doing 
what  he  could  to  be  of  service,  sick  with  horror,  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot. 

The  surviving  members  of  both  Leaguers  and  depu- 
ties— the  warring  factions  of  the  Railroad  and  the  Peo- 
ple— mingled  together  now  with  no  thought  of  hostility. 
Presley  helped  the  doctor  to  cover  Christian's  body.  S. 
Behrman  and  Ruggles  held  bowls  of  water  while  Oster- 
man  was  attended  to.  The  horror  of  that  dreadful  busi- 
ness had  driven  all  other  considerations  from  the  mind. 
The  sworn  foes  of  the  last  hour  had  no  thought  of  any- 
thing but  to  care  for  those  whom,  in  their  fury,  they  had 
shot  down.  The  marshal,  abandoning  for  that  day  the 
attempt  to  serve  the  writs,  departed  for  San  Francisco. 

The  bodies  had  been  brought  in  from  the  road  where 


A  Story  of  California  529 

they  fell.  Annixter's  corpse  had  been  laid  upon  the  bed ; 
those  of  Dabney  and  Hooven,  whose  wounds  had  all  been 
in  the  face  and  head,  were  covered  with  a  tablecloth. 
Upon  the  floor,  places  were  made  for  the  others.  Cutter 
and  Ruggles  rode  into  Guadalajara  to  bring  out  the 
doctor  there,  and  to  telephone  to  Bonneville  for  others. 

Osterman  had  not  at  any  time  since  the  shooting,  lost 
consciousness.  He  lay  upon  the  floor  of  Hooven's  house, 
bare  to  the  waist,  bandages  of  adhesive  tape  reeved  about 
his  abdomen  and  shoulder.  His  eyes  were  half-closed. 
Presley,  who  looked  after  him,  pending  the  arrival  of  a 
hack  from  Bonneville  that  was  to  take  him  home,  knew 
that  he  was  in  agony. 

But  this  poser,  this  silly  fellow,  this  cracker  of  jokes, 
whom  no  one  had  ever  taken  very  seriously,  at  the  last 
redeemed  himself.  When  at  length,  the  doctor  had  ar- 
rived, he  had,  for  the  first  time,  opened  his  eyes. 

"  I  can  wait,"  he  said.    "  Take  Harran  first." 

And  when  at  length,  his  turn  had  come,  and  while  the 
sweat  rolled  from  his  forehead  as  the  doctor  began  prob- 
ing for  the  bullet,  he  had  reached  out  his  free  arm  and 
taken  Presley's  hand  in  his,  gripping  it  harder  and 
harder,  as  the  probe  entered  the  wound.  His  breath 
came  short  through  his  nostrils;  his  face,  the  face  of  a 
comic  actor,  with  its  high  cheek  bones,  bald  forehead, 
and  salient  ears,  grew  paler  and  paler,  his  great  slit  of  a 
mouth  shut  tight,  but  he  uttered  no  groan. 

When  the  worst  anguish  was  over  and  he  could  find 
breath  to  speak,  his  first  words  had  been : 

"Were  any  of  the  others  badly  hurt?" 

As  Presley  stood  by  the  door  of  the  house  after  bring- 
ing in  a  pail  of  water  for  the  doctor,  he  was  aware  of  a 
party  of  men  who  had  struck  off  from  the  road  on  the 
other  side  of  the  irrigating  ditch  and  were  advancing 
cautiously  into  the  field  of  wheat.  He  wondered  what  it 


53°  The  Octopus 

meant  and  Cutter,  coming  up  at  that  moment,  Presley 
asked  him  if  he  knew. 

"  It's  Delaney,"  said  Cutter.  "  It  seems  that  when  he 
was  shot  he  crawled  off  into  the  wheat.  They  are  look- 
ing for  him  there." 

Presley  had  forgotten  all  about  the  buster  and  had 
only  a  vague  recollection  of  seeing  him  slide  from  his 
horse  at  the  beginning  of  the  fight.  Anxious  to  know 
what  had  become  of  him,  he  hurried  up  and  joined  the 
party  of  searchers. 

"  We  better  look  out,"  said  one  of  the  young  men, 
"  how  we  go  fooling  around  in  here.  If  he's  alive  yet 
he's  just  as  liable  as  not  to  think  we're  after  him  and 
take  a  shot  at  us." 

"  I  guess  there  ain't  much  fight  left  in  him,"  another 
answered.  "  Look  at  the  wheat  here." 

"  Lord  !    He's  bled  like  a  stuck  pig." 

"  Here's  his  hat,"  abruptly  exclaimed  the  leader  <of  the 
.party.  "  He  can't  be  far  off.  Let's  call  him." 

They  called  repeatedly  without  getting  any  answer, 
then  proceeded  cautiously.  All  at  once  the  men  in  ad- 
vance stopped  so  suddenly  that  those  following  car- 
romed  against  them.  There  was  an  outburst  of  ex- 
clamation. 

"  Here  he  is !  " 

"  Good  Lord  !    Sure,  that's  him." 

"  Poor  fellow,  poor  fellow." 

The  cow-puncher  lay  on  his  back,  deep  in  the  wheat, 
his  knees  drawn  up,  his  eyes  wide  open,  his  lips  brown. 
Rigidly  gripped  in  one  hand  was  his  empty  revolver. 

The  men,  farm  hands  from  the  neighbouring  ranches, 
young  fellows  from  Guadalajara,  drew  back  in  instinctive 
repulsion.  One  at  length  ventured  near,  peering  down 
into  the  face. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  "  inquired  those  in  the  rear. 


A  Story  of  California  531 

"/don't  know." 

"  Well,  put  your  hand  on  his  heart." 

"  No !     I— I  don't  want  to." 

"What  you  afraid  of?" 

"  Well,  I  just  don't  want  to  touch  him,  that's  all.  It's 
bad  luck.  You  feel  his  heart." 

"  You  can't  always  tell  by  that." 

"  How  can  you  tell,  then  ?  Pshaw,  you  fellows  make 
me  sick.  Here,  let  me  get  there.  I'll  do  it." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  as  the  other  bent  down  and 
laid  his  hand  on  the  cow-puncher's  breast. 

"Well?" 

"  I  can't  tell.  Sometimes  I  think  I  feel  it  beat  and 
sometimes  I  don't.  I  never  saw  a  dead  man  before." 

"  Well,  you  can't  tell  by  the  heart." 

"  What's  the  good  of  talking  so  blame  much.  Dead 
or  not,  let's  carry  him  back  to  the  house." 

Two  or  three  ran  back  to  the  road  for  planks  from  the 
broken  bridge.  When  they  returned  with  these  a  litter 
was  improvised,  and  throwing  their  coats  over  the  body, 
the  party  carried  it  back  to  the  road.  The  doctor  was 
summoned  and  declared  the  cow-puncher  to  have  been 
dead  over  half  an  hour. 

"  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  "  exclaimed  one  of  the  group. 

"Well,  I  never  said  he  wasn't  dead,"  protested  the 
other.  "  I  only  said  you  couldn't  always  tell  by  whether 
his  heart  beat  or  not." 

But  all  at  once  there  was  a  commotion.  The  wagon 
containing  Mrs.  Hooven,  Minna,  and  little  Hilda  drove 
up. 

"  Eh,  den,  my  men,"  cried  Mrs.  Hooven,  wildly  inter- 
rogating the  faces  of  the  crowd.  "  Whadt  has  happun  ? 
Sey,  den,  dose  vellers,  hev  dey  hurdt  my  men,  eh, 
whadt?" 

She  sprang  from  the  wagon,  followed  by  Minna  with 


532  The  Octopus 

Hilda  in  her  arms.  The  crowd  bore  back  as  they  ad- 
vanced, staring  at  them  in  silence. 

"  Eh,  whadt  has  happun,  whadt  has  happun  ?  "  wailed 
Mrs.  Hooven,  as  she  hurried  on,  her  two  hands  out  be- 
fore her,  the  fingers  spread  wide.  "  Eh,  Hooven,  eh,  my 
men,  are  you  alle  righdt  ?  " 

She  burst  into  the  house.  Hooven's  body  had  been 
removed  to  an  adjoining  room,  the  bedroom  of  the 
house,  and  to  this  room  Mrs.  Hooven — Minna  still  at  her 
heels — proceeded,  guided  by  an  instinct  born  of  the  occa- 
sion. Those  in  the  outside  room,  saying  no  word,  made 
way  for  them.  They  entered,  closing  the  door  behind 
them,  and  through  all  the  rest  of  that  terrible  day,  no 
sound  nor  sight  of  them  was  had  by  those  who  crowded 
into  and  about  that  house  of  death.  Of  all  the  main 
actors  of  the  tragedy  of  the  fight  in  the  ditch,  they  re- 
mained the  least  noted,  obtruded  themselves  the  least 
upon  the  world's  observation.  They  were,  for  the  mo- 
ment, forgotten. 

But  by  now  Hooven's  house  was  the  centre  of  an 
enormous  crowd.  A  vast  concourse  of  people  from 
Bonneville,  from  Guadalajara,  from  the  ranches,  swelled 
by  the  thousands  who  had  that  morning  participated  in 
the  rabbit  drive,  surged  about  the  place ;  men  and  women, 
young  boys,  young  girls,  farm  hands,  villagers,  towns- 
people, ranchers,  railroad  employees,  Mexicans,  Span- 
iards, Portuguese.  Presley,  returning  from  the  search  for 
Delaney's  body,  had  to  fight  his  way  to  the  house  again. 

And  from  all  this  multitude  there  rose  an  indefinable 
murmur.  As  yet,  there  was  no  menace  in  it,  no  anger.  It 
was  confusion  merely,  bewilderment,  the  first  long-drawn 
"  oh !  "  that  greets  the  news  of  some  great  tragedy.  The 
people  had  taken  no  thought  as  yet.  Curiosity  was  their 
dominant  impulse.  Every  one  wanted  to  see  what  had 
been  done;  failing  that,  to  hear  of  it,  and  failing  that,  to 


A  Story  of  California  533 

be  near  the  scene  of  the  affair.  The  crowd  of  people 
packed  the  road  in  front  of  the  house  for  nearly  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  in  either  direction.  They  balanced  themselves 
upon  the  lower  strands  of  the  barbed  wire  fence  in  their 
effort  to  see  over  each  others'  shoulders;  they  stood  on 
the  seats  of  their  carts,  buggies,  and  farm  wagons,  a  few 
even  upon  the  saddles  of  their  riding  horses.  They 
crowded,  pushed,  struggled,  surged  forward  and  back 
without  knowing  why,  converging  incessantly  upon 
Hooven's  house. 

When,  at  length,  Presley  got  to  the  gate,  he  found  a 
carry-all  drawn  up  before  it.  Between  the  gate  and  the 
door  of  the  house  a  lane  had  been  formed,  and  as  he 
paused  there  a  moment,  a  group  of  Leaguers,  among 
whom  were  Garnett  and  Gethings,  came  slowly  from  the 
door  carrying  old  Broderson  in  their  arms.  The  doctor, 
bareheaded  and  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  squinting  in  the  sun- 
light, attended  them,  repeating  at  every  step : 

"  Slow,  slow,  take  it  easy,  gentlemen." 

Old  Broderson  was  unconscious.  His  face  was  not 
pale,  no  bandages  could  be  seen.  With  infinite  precau- 
tions, the  men  bore  him  to  the  carry-all  and  deposited 
him  on  the  back  seat ;  the  rain  flaps  were  let  down  on  one 
side  to  shut  off  the  gaze  of  the  multitude. 

But  at  this  point  a  moment  of  confusion  ensued. 
Presley,  because  of  half  a  dozen  people  who  stood  in  his 
way,  could  not  see  what  was  going  on.  There  were  ex- 
clamations, hurried  movements.  The  doctor  uttered  a 
sharp  command  and  a  man  ran  back  to  the  house,  return- 
ing on  the  instant  with  the  doctor's  satchel.  By  this  time, 
Presley  was  close  to  the  wheels  of  the  carry-all  and 
could  see  the  doctor  inside  the  vehicle  bending  over  old 
Broderson. 

"  Here  it  is,  here  it  is,"  exclaimed  the  man  who  had 
been  sent  to  the  house. 


534  The  Octopus 

"  I  won't  need  it,"  answered  the  doctor,  "  he's  dying 
now." 

At  the  words  a  great  hush  widened  throughout  the 
throng  near  at  hand.  Some  men  took  off  their  hats. 

"  Stand  back/'  protested  the  doctor  quietly,  "  stand 
back,  good  people,  please." 

The  crowd  bore  back  a  little.  In  the  silence,  a  woman 
began  to  sob.  The  seconds  passed,  then  a  minute.  The 
horses  of  the  carry-all  shifted  their  feet  and  whisked  their 
tails,  driving  off  the  flies.  At  length,  the  doctor  got  down 
from  the  carry-all,  letting  down  the  rain-flaps  on  that 
side  as  well. 

"  Will  somebody  go  home  with  the  body  ?  "  he  asked. 
Gethings  stepped  forward  and  took  his  place  by  the 
driver.  The  carry-all  drove  away. 

Presley  reentered  the  house.  During  his  absence  it 
had  been  cleared  of  all  but  one  or  two  of  the  Leaguers, 
who  had  taken  part  in  the  fight.  Hilma  still  sat  on  the 
bed  with  Annixter's  head  in  her  lap.  S.  Behrman, 
Ruggles,  and  all  the  railroad  party  had  gone.  Osterman 
had  been  taken  away  in  a  hack  and  the  tablecloth  over 
Dabney's  body  replaced  with  a  sheet.  But  still  unabated, 
agonised,  raucous,  came  the  sounds  of  Harran's  breath- 
ing. Everything  possible  had  already  been  done.  For 
the  moment  it  was  out  of  the  question  to  attempt  to  move 
him.  His  mother  and  father  were  at  his  side,  Magnus, 
with  a  face  of  stone,  his  look  fixed  on  those  persistently 
twitching  eyes,  Annie  Derrick  crouching  at  her  son\> 
side,  one  of  his  hands  in  hers,  fanning  his  face  continu- 
ally with  the  crumpled  sheet  of  an  old  newspaper. 

Presley  on  tip-toes  joined  the  group,  looking  on  atten- 
tively. One  of  the  surgeons  who  had  been  called  from 
Bonneville  stood  close  by,  watching  Harran's  face,  his 
arms  folded. 

"  How  is  he  ?  "  Presley  whispered. 


A  Story  of  California  535 

"  He  won't  live,"  the  other  responded. 

By  degrees  the  choke  and  gurgle  of  the  breathing 
became  more  irregular  and  the  lids  closed  over  the 
twitching  eyes.  All  at  once  the  breath  ceased.  Magnus 
shot  an  inquiring  glance  at  the  surgeon. 

"  He  is  dead,  Mr.  Derrick,"  the  surgeon  replied. 

Annie  Derrick,  with  a  cry  that  rang  through  all  the 
house,  stretched  herself  over  the  body  of  her  son,  her 
head  upon  his  breast,  and  the  Governor's  great  shoulders 
bowed  never  to  rise  again. 

"  God  help  me  and  forgive  me,"  he  groaned. 

Presley  rushed  from  the  house,  beside  himself  with 
grief,  with  horror,  with  pity,  and  with  mad,  insensate 
rage.  On  the  porch  outside  Caraher  met  him. 

"  Is  he — is  he — "  began  the  saloon-keeper. 

"Yes,  he's  dead,"  cried  Presley.  "They're  all  dead, 
murdered,  shot  down,  dead,  dead,  all  of  them.  Whose 
turn  is  next  ?  " 

"  That's  the  way  they  killed  my  wife,  Presley." 

"  Caraher,"  cried  Presley,  "  give  me  your  hand.  I've 
been  wrong  all  the  time.  The  League  is  wrong.  All  the 
world  is  wrong.  You  are  the  only  one  of  us  all  who  is 
right.  I'm  with  you  from  now  on.  By  God,  I  too,  I'm  a 
Red!" 

In  course  of  time,  a  farm  wagon  from  Bonneville 
arrived  at  Hooven's.  The  bodies  of  Annixter  and  Har- 
ran  were  placed  in  it,  and  it  drove  down  the  Lower  Road 
towards  the  Los  Muertos  ranch  houses. 

The  bodies  of  Delaney  and  Christian  had  already  been 
carried  to  Guadalajara  and  thence  taken  by  train  to 
Bonneville. 

Hilma  followed  the  farm  wagon  in  the  Derricks'  carry- 
all, with  Magnus  and  his  wife.  During  all  that  ride 
none  of  them  spoke  a  word.  It  had  been  arranged  that, 
since  Quien  Sabe  was  in  the  hands  of  the  Railroad,  Hilma 


536  The  Octopus 

should  come  to  Los  Muertos.  To  that  place  also 
Annixter's  body  was  carried. 

Later  on  in  the  day,  when  it  was  almost  evening,  the 
undertaker's  black  wagon  passed  the  Derricks'  Home 
ranch  on  its  way  from  Hooven's  and  turned  into  the 
county  road  towards  Bonneville.  The  initial  excitement 
of  the  affair  of  the  irrigating  ditch  had  died  down;  the 
crowd  long  since  had  dispersed.  By  the  time  the  wagon 
passed  Caraher's  saloon,  the  sun  had  set.  Night  was 
coming  on. 

And  the  black  wagon  went  on  through  the  darkness, 
unattended,  ignored,  solitary,  carrying  the  dead  body  of 
Dabney,  the  silent  old  man  of  whom  nothing  was  known 
but  his  name,  who  made  no  friends,  whom  nobody  knew 
or  spoke  to,  who  had  come  from  no  one  knew  whence  and 
who  went  no  one  knew  whither. 

Towards  midnight  of  that  same  day,  Mrs.  Dyke  was 
awakened  by  the  sounds  of  groaning  in  the  room  next  to 
hers.  Magnus  Derrick  was  not  so  occupied  by  Harran's 
death  that  he  could  not  think  of  others  who  were  in  dis- 
tress, and  when  he  had  heard  that  Mrs.  Dyke  and  Sidney, 
like  Hilma,  had  been  turned  out  of  Quien  Sabe,  he  had 
thrown  open  Los  Muertos  to  them. 

"  Though,"  he  warned  them,  "  it  is  precarious  hospi- 
tality at  the  best." 

Until  late,  Mrs.  Dyke  had  sat  up  with  Hilma,  com- 
forting her  as  best  she  could,  rocking  her  to  and  fro  in 
her  arms,  crying  with  her,  trying  to  quiet  her,  for  once 
having  given  way  to  her  grief,  Hilma  wept  with  a  terri- 
ble anguish  and  a  violence  that  racked  her  from  head  to 
foot,  and  at  last,  worn  out,  a  little  child  again,  had 
sobbed  herself  to  sleep  in  the  older  woman's  arms,  and 
as  a  little  child,  Mrs.  Dyke  had  put  her  to  bed  and  had 
retired  herself. 

Aroused  a  few  hours  later  bv  the  sounds  of  a  distress 


A  Story  of  California  537 

that  was  physical,  as  well  as  mental,  Mrs.  Dyke  hurried 
into  Hilma's  room,  carrying  the  lamp  with  her. 

Mrs.  Dyke  needed  no  enlightenment.  She  woke  Pres- 
ley and  besought  him  to  telephone  to  Bonneville  at  once, 
summoning  a  doctor.  That  night  Hilma  in  great  pain 
suffered  a  miscarriage. 

Presley  did  not  close  his  eyes  once  during  the  night ; 
he  did  not  even  remove  his  clothes.  Long  after  the 
doctor  had  departed  and  that  house  of  tragedy  had 
quieted  down,  he  still  remained  in  his  place  by  the  open 
window  of  his  little  room,  looking  off  across  the  leagues 
of  growing  wheat,  watching  the  slow  kindling  of  the 
dawn.  Horror  weighed  intolerably  upon  him.  Mon- 
strous things,  huge,  terrible,  whose  names  he  knew  only 
too  well,  whirled  at  a  gallop  through  his  imagination,  or 
rose  spectral  and  grisly  before  the  eyes  of  his  mind. 
Harran  dead,  Annixter  dead,  Broderson  dead,  Osterman, 
perhaps,  even  at  that  moment  dying.  Why,  these  men 
had  made  up  his  world.  Annixter  had  been  his  best 
friend,  Harran,  his  almost  daily  companion;  Broderson 
and  Osterman  were  familiar  to  him  as  brothers.  They 
were  all  his  associates,  his  good  friends,  the  group  was 
his  environment,  belonging  to  his  daily  life.  And  he, 
standing  there  in  the  dust  of  the  road  by  the  irrigating 
ditch,  had  seen  them  shot.  He  found  himself  suddenly 
at  his  table,  the  candle  burning  at  his  elbow,  his  journal 
before  him,  writing  swiftly,  the  desire  for  expression, 
the  craving  for  outlet  to  the  thoughts  that  clamoured 
tumultuous  at  his  brain,  never  more  insistent,  more  im- 
perious. Thus  he  wrote: 

"  Dabney  dead,  Hooven  dead,  Harran  dead,  Annixter 
dead,  Broderson  dead,  Osterman  dying,  S.  Behrman  alive, 
successful ;  the  Railroad  in  possession  of  Quien  Sabe.  I 
saw  them  shot.  Not  twelve  hours  since  I  stood  there  at 
the  irrigating  ditch.  Ah,  that  terrible  moment  of  horror 


538  The  Octopus 

and  confusion !  powder  smoke — flashing  pistol  barrels — 
blood  stains — rearing  horses — men  staggering  to  their 
death — Christian  in  a  horrible  posture,  one  rigid  leg  high 
in  the  air  across  his  saddle — Broderson  falling  sideways 
into  the  ditch — Osterman  laying  himself  down,  his  head 
on  his  arms,  as  if  tired,  tired  out.  These  things,  I  have 
seen  them.  The  picture  of  this  day's  work  is  from  hence- 
forth part  of  my  mind,  part  of  me.  They  have  done  it, 
S.  Behrman  and  the  owners  of  the  railroad  have  done 
it,  while  all  the  world  looked  on,  while  the  people  of 
these  United  States  looked  on.  Oh,  come  now  and  try 
your  theories  upon  us,  us  of  the  ranchos,  us,  who  have 
suffered,  us,  who  know.  Oh,  talk  to  us  now  of  the 
'  rights  of  Capital/  talk  to  us  of  the  Trust,  talk  to  us  of 
the  '  equilibrium  between  the  classes.'  Try  your  ingeni- 
ous ideas  upon  us.  We  Know.  I  cannot  tell  whether  or 
not  your  theories  are  excellent.  I  do  not  know  if  your 
ideas  are  plausible.  I  do  not  know  how  practical  is  your 
scheme  of  society.  I  do  not  know  if  the  Railroad  has  a 
right  to  our  lands,  but  I  do  know  that  Harran  is  dead, 
that  Annixter  is  dead,  that  Broderson  is  dead,  that  Hoo- 
ven  is  dead,  that  Osterman  is  dying,  and  that  S.  Behrman 
is  alive,  successful,  triumphant;  that  he  has  ridden  into 
possession  of  a  principality  over  the  dead  bodies  of  five 
men  shot  down  by  his  hired  associates. 

"  I  can  see  the  outcome.  The  Railroad  will  prevail. 
The  Trust  will  overpower  us.  Here  in  this  corner  of  a 
great  nation,  here,  on  the  edge  of  the  continent,  here,  in 
this  valley  of  the  West,  far  from  the  great  centres,  iso- 
lated, remote,  lost,  the  great  iron  hand  crushes  life  from 
us,  crushes  liberty  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness  from  us, 
and  our  little  struggles,  our  moment's  convulsion  of 
death  agony  causes  not  one  jar  in  the  vast,  clashing  ma- 
chinery of  the  nation's  life ;  a  fleck  of  grit  in  the  wheels, 
perhaps,  a  grain  of  sand  in  the  cogs — the  momentary 


A  Story  of  California  539 

creak  of  the  axle  is  the  mother's  wail  of  bereavement, 
the  wife's  cry  of  anguish — and  the  great  wheel  turns, 
spinning  smooth  again,  even  again,  and  the  tiny  impedi- 
ment of  a  second,  scarce  noticed,  is  forgotten.  Make  the 
people  believe  that  the  faint  tremour  in  their  great  en- 
gine is  a  menace  to  its  function  ?  What  a  folly  to  think  of 
it.  Tell  them  of  the  danger  and  they  will  laugh  at  you. 
Tell  them,  five  years  from  now,  the  story  of  the  fight  be- 
tween the  League  of  the  San  Joaquin  and  the  Railroad 
and  it  will  not  be  believed.  What!  a  pitched  battle  be- 
tween Farmer  and  Railroad,  a  battle  that  cost  the  lives  of 
seven  men?  Impossible,  it  could  not  have  happened. 
Your  story  is  fiction — is  exaggerated. 

"  Yet  it  is  Lexington — God  help  us,  God  enlighten  us, 
God  rouse  us  from  our  lethargy — it  is  Lexington ;  farm- 
ers with  guns  in  their  hands  fighting  for  Liberty.  Is 
our  State  of  California  the  only  one  that  has  its  ancient 
and  hereditary  foe?  Are  there  no  other  Trusts  between 
the  oceans  than  this  of  the  Pacific  and  Southwestern 
Railroad  ?  Ask  yourselves,  you  of  the  Middle  West,  ask 
yourselves,  you  of  the  North,  ask  yourselves,  you  of  the 
East,  ask  yourselves,  you  of  the  South — ask  yourselves, 
every  citizen  of  every  State  from  Maine  to  Mexico,  from 
the  Dakotas  to  the  Carolinas,  have  you  not  the  mon- 
ster in  your  boundaries  ?  If  it  is  not  a  Trust  of  transpor- 
tation, it  is  only  another  head  of  the  same  Hydra.  Is  not 
our  death  struggle  typical?  Is  it  not  one  of  many,  is  it 
not  symbolical  of  the  great  and  terrible  conflict  that  is 
going  on  everywhere  in  these  United  States?  Ah,  you 
people,  blind,  bound,  tricked,  betrayed,  can  you  not  see 
it?  Can  you  not  see  how  the  monsters  have  plundered 
your  treasures  and  holding  them  in  the  grip  of  their  iron 
claws,  dole  them  out  to  you  only  at  the  price  of  your 
blood,  at  the  price  of  the  lives  of  your  wives  and  your 
little  children?  You  give  your  babies  to  Moloch  for  the 


540  The  Octopus 

loaf  of  bread  you  have  kneaded  yourselves.  You  offer 
your  starved  wives  to  Juggernaut  for  the  iron  nail  you 
have  yourselves  compounded." 

He  spent  the  night  over  his  journal,  writing  down  such 
thoughts  as  these  or  walking  the  floor  from  wall  to  wall, 
or,  seized  at  times  with  unreasoning  horror  and  blind 
rage,  flinging  himself  face  downward  upon  his  bed,  vow- 
ing with  inarticulate  cries  that  neither  S.  Behrman  nor 
Shelgrim  should  ever  live  to  consummate  their  triumph. 

Morning  came  and  with  it  the  daily  papers  and  news. 
Presley  did  not  even  glance  at  the  "  Mercury."  Bonne- 
ville  published  two  other  daily  journals  that  professed  to 
voice  the  will  and  reflect  the  temper  of  the  people  and 
these  he  read  eagerly. 

Osterman  was  yet  alive  and  there  were  chances  of  his 
recovery.  The  League — some  three  hundred  of  its  mem- 
bers had  gathered  at  Bonneville  over  night  and  were 
patrolling  the  streets  and,  still  resolved  to  keep  the  peace, 
were  even  guarding  the  railroad  shops  and  buildings. 
Furthermore,  the  Leaguers  had  issued  manifestoes,  urg- 
ing all  citizens  to  preserve  law  and  order,  yet  summoning 
an  indignation  meeting  to  be  convened  that  afternoon  at 
the  City  Opera  House. 

It  appeared  from  the  newspapers  that  those  who  ob- 
structed the  marshal  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty  could 
be  proceeded  against  by  the  District  Attorney  on  informa- 
tion or  by  bringing  the  matter  before  the  Grand  Jury. 
But  the  Grand  Jury  was  not  at  that  time  in  session,  and 
it  was  known  that  there  were  no  funds  in  the  marshal's 
office  to  pay  expenses  for  the  summoning  of  jurors  or 
the  serving  of  processes.  S.  Behrman  and  Ruggles  in 
interviews  stated  that  the  Railroad  withdrew  entirely 
from  the  fight ;  the  matter  now,  according  to  them,  was 
between  the  Leaguers  and  the  United  States  Govern- 
ment; they  washed  their  hands  of  the  whole  business. 


A  Story  of  California  541 

The  ranchers  could  settle  with  Washington.  But  it 
seemed  that  Congress  had  recently  forbade  the  use  of 
troops  for  civil  purposes;  the  whole  matter  of  the 
League-Railroad  contest  was  evidently  for  the  moment 
to  be  left  in  statu  quo. 

But  to  Presley's  mind  the  most  important  piece  of  news 
that  morning  was  the  report  of  the  action  of  the  Railroad 
upon  hearing  of  the  battle. 

Instantly  Bonneville  had  been  isolated.  Not  a  single 
local  train  was  running,  not  one  of  the  through  trains 
made  any  halt  at  the  station.  The  mails  were  not  moved. 
Further  than  this,  by  some  arrangement  difficult  to  un- 
derstand, the  telegraph  operators  at  Bonneville  and 
Guadalajara,  acting  under  orders,  refused  to  receive  any 
telegrams  except  those  emanating  from  railway  officials. 
The  story  of  the  fight,  the  story  creating  the  first  impres- 
sion, was  to  be  told  to  San  Francisco  and  the  outside 
world  by  S.  Behrman,  Ruggles,  and  the  local  P.  and  S. 
W.  agents. 

An  hour  before  breakfast,  the  undertakers  arrived  and 
took  charge  of  the  bodies  of  Harran  and  Annixter. 
Presley  saw  neither  Hilma,  Magnus,  nor  Mrs.  Derrick. 
The  doctor  came  to  look  after  Hilma.  He  breakfasted 
with  Mrs.  Dyke  and  Presley,  and  from  him  Presley 
learned  that  Hilma  would  recover  both  from  the  shock 
of  her  husband's  death  and  from  her  miscarriage  of  the 
previous  night. 

"  She  ought  to  have  her  mother  with  her,"  said  the 
physician.  "  She  does  nothing  but  call  for  her  -or  beg  to 
be  allowed  to  go  to  her.  I  have  tried  to  get  a  wire 
through  to  Mrs.  Tree,  but  the  company  will  not  take  it, 
and  even  if  I  could  get  word  to  her,  how  could  she  get 
down  here?  There  are  no  trains/' 

But  Presley  found  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
stay  at  Los  Muertos  that  day.  Gloom  and  the  shadow, 


542  The  Octopus 

of  tragedy  brooded  heavy  over  the  place.  A  great 
silence  pervaded  everything,  a  silence  broken  only  by 
the  subdued  coming  and  going  of  the  undertaker  and  his 
assistants.  When  Presley,  having  resolved  to  go  into 
Bonneville,  came  out  through  the  doorway  of  the  house, 
he  found  the  undertaker  tying  a  long  strip  of  crape  to 
the  bell-handle. 

Presley  saddled  his  pony  and  rode  into  town.  By  this 
time,  after  long  hours  of  continued  reflection  upon  one 
subject,  a  sombre  brooding  malevolence,  a  deep-seated 
desire  of  revenge,  had  grown  big  within  his  mind.  The 
first  numbness  had  passed  off ;  familiarity  with  what  had 
been  done  had  blunted  the  edge  of  horror,  and  now  the 
impulse  of  retaliation  prevailed.  At  first,  the  sullen 
anger  of  defeat,  the  sense  of  outrage,  had  only  smouldered, 
but  the  more  he  brooded,  the  fiercer  flamed  his  rage. 
Sudden  paroxysms  of  wrath  gripped  him  by  the  throat ; 
abrupt  outbursts  of  fury  injected  his  eyes  with  blood. 
He  ground  his  teeth,  his  mouth  filled  with  curses,  his 
hands  clenched  till  they  grew  white  and  bloodless.  Was 
the  Railroad  to  triumph  then  in  the  end  ?  After  all  those 
months  of  preparation,  after  all  those  grandiloquent  reso- 
lutions, after  all  the  arrogant  presumption  of  the  League ! 
The  League !  what  a  farce ;  what  had  it  amounted  to  when 
the  crisis  came?  Was  the  Trust  to  crush  them  all  so 
easily?  Was  S.  Behrman  to  swallow  Los  Muertos?  S. 
Behrman !  Presley  saw  him  plainly,  huge,  rotund,  white  ; 
saw  his  jowl  tremulous  and  obese,  the  roll  of  fat  over  his 
collar  sprinkled  with  sparse  hairs,  the  great  stomach  with 
its  brown  linen  vest  and  heavy  watch  chain  of  hollow 
links,  clinking  against  the  buttons  of  imitation  pearl. 
And  this  man  was  to  crush  Magnus  Derrick — had  already 
stamped  the  life  from  such  men  as  Harran  and  Annixter. 
This  man,  in  the  name  of  the  Trust,  was  to  grab  Los 
Muertos  as  he  had  grabbed  Quien  Sabe,  and  after  Los 


A  Story  of  California  543 

Muertos,  Broderson's  ranch,  then  Osterman's,  then  others, 
and  still  others,  the  whole  valley,  the  whole  State. 

Presley  beat  his  forehead  with  his  clenched  fist  as  he 
rode  on. 

"  No,"  he  cried,  "  no,  kill  him,  kill  him,  kill  him  with 
my  hands." 

The  idea  of  it  put  him  beside  himself.  Oh,  to  sink  his 
fingers  deep  into  the  white,  fat  throat  of  the  man,  to 
clutch  like  iron  into  the  great  puffed  jowl  of  him,  to 
wrench  out  the  life,  to  batter  it  out,  strangle  it  out,  to 
pay  him  back  for  the  long  years  of  extortion  and  oppres- 
sion, to  square  accounts  for  bribed  jurors,  bought  judges, 
corrupted  legislatures,  to  have  justice  for  the  trick  of  the 
Ranchers'  Railroad  Commission,  the  charlatanism  of  the 
"  ten  per  cent,  cut,"  the  ruin  of  Dyke,  the  seizure  of 
Quien  Sabe,  the  murder  of  Harran,  the  assassination  of 
Annixter ! 

It  was  in  such  mood  that  he  reached  Caraher's.  The 
saloon-keeper  had  just  opened  his  place  and  was  stand- 
ing in  his  doorway,  smoking  his  pipe.  Presley  dis- 
mounted and  went  in  and  the  two  had  a  long  talk. 

When,  three  hours  later,  Presley  came  out  of  the  saloon 
and  rode  on  towards  Bonncville,  his  face  was  very  pale, 
his  lips  shut  tight,  resolute,  determined.  His  manner  was 
that  of  a  man  whose  mind  is  made  up. 

The  hour  for  the  mass  meeting  at  the  Opera  House 
had  been  set  for  one  o'clock,  but  long  before  noon  the 
street  in  front  of  the  building  and,  in  fact,  all  the  streets 
in  its  vicinity,  were  packed  from  side  to  side  with  a 
shifting,  struggling,  surging,  and  excited  multitude. 
There  were  few  women  in  the  throng,  but  hardly  a  single 
male  inhabitant  of  either  Bonneville  or  Guadalajara  was 
absent.  Men  had  even  come  from  Visalia  and  Pixley.  It 
was  no  longer  the  crowd  of  curiosity  seekers  that  had 
thronged  around  Hooven's  place  by  the  irrigating  ditch; 


544  The  Octopus 

the  People  were  no  longer  confused,  bewildered.  A  full 
realisation  of  just  what  had  been  done  the  day  before 
was  clear  now  in  the  minds  of  all.  Business  was  sus- 
pended; nearly  all  the  stores  were  closed.  Since  early 
morning  the  members  of  the  League  had  put  in  an  ap- 
pearance and  rode  from  point  to  point,  their  rifles  across 
their  saddle  pommels.  Then,  by  ten  o'clock,  the  streets 
had  begun  to  fill  up,  the  groups  on  the  corners  grew  and 
merged  into  one  another;  pedestrians,  unable  to  find 
room  on  the  sidewalks,  took  to  the  streets.  Hourly  the 
crowd  increased  till  shoulders  touched  and  elbows,  till 
free  circulation  became  impeded,  then  congested,  then 
impossible.  The  crowd,  a  solid  mass,  was  wedged  tight 
from  store  front  to  store  front.  And  from  all  this 
throng,  this  single  unit,  this  living,  breathing  organism — 
the  People — there  rose  a  droning,  terrible  note.  It  was 
not  yet  the  wild,  fierce  clamour  of  riot  and  insurrection, 
shrill,  high  pitched;  but  it  was  a  beginning,  the  growl 
of  the  awakened  brute,  feeling  the  iron  in  its  flank,  heav- 
ing up  its  head  with  bared  teeth,  the  throat  vibrating  to 
the  long,  indrawn  snarl  of  wrath. 

Thus  the  forenoon  passed,  while  the  people,  their  bulk 
growing  hourly  vaster,  kept  to  the  streets,  moving  slowly 
backward  and  forward,  oscillating  in  the  grooves  of  the 
thoroughfares,  the  steady,  low-pitched  growl  rising  con- 
tinually into  the  hot,  still  air. 

Then,  at  length,  about  twelve  o'clock,  the  movement  of 
the  throng  assumed  definite  direction.  It  set  towards  the 
Opera  House.  Presley,  who  had  left  his  pony  at  the  City 
livery  stable,  found  himself  caught  in  the  current  and 
carried  slowly  forward  in  its  direction.  His  arms  were 
pinioned  to  his  sides  by  the  press,  the  crush  against  his 
body  was  all  but  rib-cracking,  he  could  hardly  draw  his 
breath.  All  around  him  rose  and  fell  wave  after  wave 
of  faces,  hundreds  upon  hundreds,  thousands  upon  thou- 


A  Story  of  California  545 

sands,  red,  lowering,  sullen.  All  were  set  in  one  direc- 
tion and  slowly,  slowly  they  advanced,  crowding  closer,  till 
they  almost  touched  one  another.  For  reasons  that  were 
inexplicable,  great,  tumultuous  heavings,  like  ground- 
swells  of  an  incoming  tide,  surged  over  and  through  the 
multitude.  At  times,  Presley,  lifted  from  his  feet,  was 
swept  back,  back,  back,  with  the  crowd,  till  the  entrance 
of  the  Opera  House  was  half  a  block  away;  then,  the 
returning  billow  beat  back  again  and  swung  him  along, 
gasping,  staggering,  clutching,  till  he  was  landed  once 
more  in  the  vortex  of  frantic  action  in  front  of  the  foyer. 
Here  the  waves  were  shorter,  quicker,  the  crushing  pres- 
sure on  all  sides  of  his  body  left  him  without  strength  to 
utter  the  cry  that  rose  to  his  lips;  then,  suddenly  the 
whole  mass  of  struggling,  stamping,  fighting,  writhing 
men  about  him  seemed,  as  it  were,  to  rise,  to  lift,  multi- 
tudinous, swelling,  gigantic.  A  mighty  rush  dashed 
Presley  forward  in  its  leap.  There  was  a  moment's  whirl 
of  confused  sights,  congested  faces,  opened  mouths, 
bloodshot  eyes,  clutching  hands ;  a  moment's  outburst  of 
furious  sound,  shouts,  cheers,  oaths;  a  moment's  jam 
wherein  Presley  veritably  believed  his  ribs  must  snap 
like  pipestems  and  he  was  carried,  dazed,  breathless, 
helpless,  an  atom  on  the  crest  of  a  storm-driven  wave, 
up  the  steps  of  the  Opera  House,  on  into  the  vestibule, 
through  the  doors,  and  .at  last  into  the  auditorium  of  the 
house  itself. 

There  was  a  mad  rush  for  places ;  men  disdaining  the 
aisle,  stepped  from  one  orchestra  chair  to  another,  strid- 
ing over  the  backs  of  seats,  leaving  the  print  of  dusty 
feet  upon  the  red  plush  cushions.  In  a  twinkling  the 
house  was  filled  from  stage  to  topmost  gallery.  The 
aisles  were  packed  solid,  even  on  the  edge  of  the  stage 
itself  men  were  sitting,  a  black  fringe  on  either  side  of 
the  footlights. 
35 


546  The  Octopus 

The  curtain  was  up,  disclosing  a  half-set  scene, — the 
flats,  leaning  at  perilous  angles, — that  represented  some 
sort  of  terrace,  the  pavement,  alternate  squares  of  black 
and  white  marble,  while  red,  white,  and  yellow  flowers 
were  represented  as  growing  from  urns  and  vases.  A 
long,  double  row  of  chairs  stretched  across  the  scene  from 
wing  to  wing,  flanking  a  table  covered  with  a  red  cloth, 
on  which  was  set  a  pitcher  of  water  and  a  speaker's 
gavel. 

Promptly  these  chairs  were  filled  up  with  members  of 
the  League,  the  audience  cheering  as  certain  well-known 
figures  made  their  appearance — Garnett  of  the  Ruby 
ranch,  Gethings  of  the  San  Pablo,  Keast  of  the  ranch  of 
the  same  name,  Chattern  of  the  Bonanza,  elderly  men, 
bearded,  slow  of  speech,  deliberate. 

Garnett  opened  the  meeting;  his  speech  was  plain, 
straightforward,  matter-of-fact.  He  simply  told  what 
had  happened.  He  announced  that  certain  resolutions 
were  to  be  drawn  up.  He  introduced  the  next  speaker. 

This  one  pleaded  for  moderation.  He  was  conserva- 
tive. All  along  he  had  opposed  the  idea  of  armed  resist- 
ance except  as  the  very  last  resort.  He  "  deplored  "  the 
terrible  affair  of  yesterday.  He  begged  the  people  to 
wait  in  patience,  to  attempt  no  more  violence.  He  in- 
formed them  that  armed  guards  of  the  League  were,  at 
that  moment,  patrolling  Los  Muertos,  Broderson's,  and 
Osterman's.  It  was  well  known  that  the  United  States 
marshal  confessed  himself  powerless  to  serve  the  writs. 
There  would  be  no  more  bloodshed. 

"  We  have  had,"  he  continued,  "  bloodshed  enough,  and 
I  want  to  say  right  here  that  I  am  not  so  sure  but  what 
yesterday's  terrible  affair  might  have  been  avoided.  A 
gentleman  whom  we  all  esteem,  who  from  the  first  has 
been  our  recognised  leader,  is,  at  this  moment,  mourning 
the  loss  of  a  young  son,  killed  before  his  eyes.  God 


A  Story  of  California  547 

knows  that  I  sympathise,  as  do  we  all,  in  the  affliction 
of  our  President.  I  am  sorry  for  him.  My  heart  goes 
out  to  him  in  this  hour  of  distress,  but,  at  the  same  time, 
the  position  of  the  League  must  be  defined.  We  owe  it 
to  ourselves,  we  owe  it  to  the  people  of  this  county.  The 
League  armed  for  the  very  purpose  of  preserving  the 
peace,  not  of  breaking  it.  We  believed  that  with  six 
hundred  armed  and  drilled  men  at  our  disposal,  ready  to 
muster  at  a  moment's  call,  we  could  so  overawe  any 
attempt  to  expel  us  from  our  lands  that  such  an  attempt 
would  not  be  made  until  the  cases  pending  before  the 
Supreme  Court  had  been  decided.  If  when  the  enemy 
appeared  in  our  midst  yesterday  they  had  been  met  by  six 
hundred  rifles,  it  is  not  conceivable  that  the  issue  would 
have  been  forced.  No  fight  would  have  ensued,  and  to- 
day we  would  not  have  to  mourn  the  deaths  of  four  of 
our  fellow-citizens.  A  mistake  has  been  made  and  we  of 
the  League  must  not  be  held  responsible." 

The  speaker  sat  down  amidst  loud  applause  from  the 
Leaguers  and  less  pronounced  demonstrations  on  the  part 
of  the  audience. 

A  second  Leaguer  took  his  place,  a  tall,  clumsy  man, 
half-rancher,  half-politician. 

"  I  want  to  second  what  my  colleague  has  just  said," 
he  began.  "  This  matter  of  resisting  the  marshal  when 
he  tried  to  put  the  Railroad  dummies  in  possession  on  the 
ranches  around  here,  was  all  talked  over  in  the  commit- 
tee meetings  of  the  League  long  ago.  It  never  was  our 
intention  to  fire  a  single  shot.  No  such  absolute  author- 
ity as  was  assumed  yesterday  was  delegated  to  anybody. 
Our  esteemed  President  is  all  right,  but  we  all  know  that 
he  is  a  man  who  loves  authority  and  who  likes  to  go  his 
own  gait  without  accounting  to  anybody.  We — the  rest 
of  us  Leaguers — never  were  informed  as  to  what  was 
going  on.  We  supposed,  of  course,  that  watch  was  being 


548  The  Octopus 

kept  on  the  Railroad  so  as  we  wouldn't  be  taken  by  sur- 
prise as  we  were  yesterday.  And  it  seems  no  watch  was 
kept  at  all,  or  if  there  was,  it  was  mighty  ineffective. 
Our  idea  was  to  forestall  any  movement  on  the  part  of 
the  Railroad  and  then  when  we  knew  the  marshal  was 
coming  down,  to  call  a  meeting  of  our  Executive  Com- 
mittee and  decide  as  to  what  should  be  done.  We  ought 
to  have  had  time  to  call  out  the  whole  League.  Instead 
of  that,  what  happens?  While  we're  all  off  chasing  rab- 
bits, the  Railroad  is  allowed  to  steal  a  march  on  us  and 
when  it  is  too  late,  a  handful  of  Leaguers  is  got  together 
and  a  fight  is  precipitated  and  our  men  killed.  I'm  sorry 
for  our  President,  too.  No  one  is  more  so,  but  I  want  to 
put  myself  on  record  as  believing  he  did  a  hasty  and  in- 
considerate thing.  If  he  had  managed  right,  he  could 
have  had  six  hundred  men  to  oppose  the  Railroad  and 
there  would  not  have  been  any  gun  fight  or  any  killing. 
He  didn't  manage  right  and  there  zuas  a  killing  and  I 
don't  see  as  how  the  League  ought  to  be  held  responsible. 
The  idea  of  the  League,  the  whole  reason  why  it  was 
organised,  was  to  protect  all  the  ranches  of  this  valley 
from  the  Railroad,  and  it  looks  to  me  as  if  the  lives  of  our 
fellow-citizens  had  been  sacrificed,  not  in  defending  all 
of  our  ranches,  but  just  in  defence  of  one  of  them — Los 
Muertos — the  one  that  Mr.  Derrick  owns." 

The  speaker  had  no  more  than  regained  his  seat  when 
a  man  was  seen  pushing  his  way  from  the  back  of  the 
stage  towards  Garnett.  He  handed  the  rancher  a  note, 
at  the  same  time  whispering  in  his  ear.  Garnett  read  the 
note,  then  came  forward  to  the  edge  of  the  stage,  holding 
up  his  hand.  When  the  audience  had  fallen  silent  he 
said : 

"  I  have  just  received  sad  news.  Our  friend  and 
fellow-citizen,  Mr.  Osterman,  died  this  morning  between 
eleven  and  twelve  o'clock." 


A  Story  of  California  549 

Instantly  there  was  a  roar.  Every  man  in  the  building 
rose  to  his  feet,  shouting,  gesticulating.  The  roar  in- 
creased, the  Opera  House  trembled  to  it,  the  gas  jets  in 
the  lighted  chandeliers  vibrated  to  it.  It  was  a  raucous 
howl  of  execration,  a  bellow  of  rage,  inarticulate,  deaf- 
ening. 

A  tornado  of  confusion  swept  whirling  from  wall  to 
wall  and  the  madness  of  the  moment  seized  irresistibly 
upon  Presley.  He  forgot  himself;  he  no  longer  was 
master  of  his  emotions  or  his  impulses.  All  at  once  he 
found  himself  upon  the  stage,  'facing  the  audience,  flam- 
ing with  excitement,  his  imagination  on  fire,  his  arms 
uplifted  in  fierce,  wild  gestures,  words  leaping  to  his  mind 
in  a  torrent  that  could  not  be  withheld. 

"  One  more  dead,"  he  cried,  "  one  more.  Harran  dead, 
Annixter  dead,  Broderson  dead,  Dabney  dead,  Osterman 
dead,  Hooven  dead;  shot  down,  killed,  killed  in  the 
defence  of  their  homes,  killed  in  the  defence  of  their 
rights,  killed  for  the  sake  of  liberty.  How  long  must  it 
go  on  ?  How  long  must  we  suffer  ?  Where  is  the  end ; 
what  is  the  end  ?  How  long  must  the  iron-hearted  mon- 
ster feed  on  our  life's  blood?  How  long  must  this  terror 
of  steam  and  steel  ride  upon  our  necks  ?  Will  you  never 
be  satisfied,  will  you  never  relent,  you,  our  masters,  you, 
our  lords,  you,  our  kings,  you,  our  task-masters,  you,  our 
Pharoahs.  Will  you  never  listen  to  that  command  '  Let 
My  people  go  '  ?  Oh,  that  cry  ringing  down  the  ages. 
Hear  it,  hear  it.  It  is  the  voice  of  the  Lord  God  speaking 
in  his  prophets.  Hear  it,  hear  it — '  Let  My  people  go ! ' 
Rameses  heard  it  in  his  pylons  at  Thebes,  Csesar  heard 
it  on  the  Palatine,  the  Bourbon  Louis  heard  it  at  Ver- 
sailles, Charles  Stuart  heard  it  at  Whitehall,  the  white 
Czar  heard  it  in  the  Kremlin, — '  Let  My  people  go.1  It  is 
the  cry  of  the  nations,  the  great  voice  of  the  centuries; 
everywhere  it  is  raised.  The  voice  of  God  is  the  voice 


550  The  Octopus 

of  the  People.  The  people  cry  out  'Let  us,  the  People, 
God's  people,  go/  You,  our  masters,  you,  our  kings, 
you,  our  tyrants,  don't  you  hear  us  ?  Don't  you  hear  God 
speaking  in  us?  Will  you  never  let  us  go?  How  long 
at  length  will  you  abuse  our  patience?  How  long  will 
you  drive  us  ?  How  long  will  you  harass  us  ?  Will  noth- 
ing daunt  you?  Does  nothing  check  you?  Do  you  not 
know  that  to  ignore  our  cry  too  long  is  to  wake  the  Red 
Terror?  Rameses  refused  to  listen  to  it  and  perished 
miserably.  Caesar  refused  to  listen  and  was  stabbed  in 
the  Senate  House.  The  Bourbon  Louis  refused  to  listen 
and  died  on  the  guillotine ;  Charles  Stuart  refused  to 
listen  and  died  on  the  block;  the  white  Czar  refused  to 
listen  and  was  blown  up  in  his  own  capital.  Will  you 
let  it  come  to  that?  Will  you  drive  us  to  it?  We  who 
boast  of  our  land  of  freedom,  we  who  live  in  the  country 
of  liberty? 

"  Go  on  as  you  have  begun  and  it  will  come  to  that. 
Turn  a  deaf  ear  to  that  cry  of  '  Let  My  people  go  '  too  long 
and  another  cry  will  be  raised,  that  you  cannot  choose  but 
hear,  a  cry  that  you  cannot  shut  out.  It  will  be  the  cry  of 
the  man  on  the  street,  the  '  a  la  Bastille '  that  wakes  the 
Red  Terror  and  unleashes  Revolution.  Harassed,  plun- 
dered, exasperated,  desperate,  the  people  will  turn  at 
last  as  they  have  turned  so  many,  many  times  before. 
You,  our  lords,  you,  our  task-masters,  you,  our  kings; 
you  have  caught  your  Samson,  you  have  made  his 
strength  your  own.  You  have  shorn  his  head ;  you  have 
put  out  his  eyes; 'you  have  set  him  to  turn  your  mill- 
stones, to  grind  the  grist  for  your  mills ;  you  have  made 
him  a  shame  and  a  mock.  Take  care,  oh,  as  you  love  your 
lives,  take  care,  lest  some  day  calling  upon  the  Lord  his 
God  he  reach  not  out  his  arms  for  the  pillars  of  your 
temples." 

The  audience,  at  first  bewildered,  confused  by  this  un* 


A  Story  of  California  551 

expected  invective,  suddenly  took  fire  at  his  last  words. 
There  was  a  roar  of  applause;  then,  more  significant 
than  mere  vociferation,  Presley's  listeners,  as  he  began  to 
speak  again,  grew  suddenly  silent  His  next  sentences 
were  uttered  in  the  midst  of  a  profound  stillness. 

"  They  own  us,  these  task-masters  of  ours ;  they  own 
our  homes,  they  own  our  legislatures.  We  cannot  es- 
cape from  them.  There  is  no  redress.  We  are  told  we 
can  defeat  them  by  the  ballot-box.  They  own  the  ballot- 
box.  We  are  told  that  we  must  look  to  the  courts  for 
redress ;  they  own  the  courts.  We  know  them  for  what 
they  are, — ruffians  in  politics,  ruffians  in  finance,  ruffians 
in  law,  ruffians  in  trade,  bribers,  swindlers,  and  tricksters. 
No  outrage  too  great  to  daunt  them,  no  petty  larceny  too 
small  to  shame  them;  despoiling  a  government  treasury 
of  a  million  dollars,  yet  picking  the  pockets  of  a  farm 
hand  of  the  price  of  a  loaf  of  bread. 

"  They  swindle  a  nation  of  a  hundred  million  and  call 
it  Financiering;  they  levy  a  blackmail  and  call  it  Com- 
merce; they  corrupt  a  legislature  and  call  it  Politics; 
they  bribe  a  judge  and  call  it  Law;  they  hire  blacklegs 
to  carry  out  their  plans  and  call  it  Organisation;  they, 
prostitute  the  honour  of  a  State  and  call  it  Competition. 

"  And  this  is  America.  We  fought  Lexington  to  free 
ourselves ;  we  fought  Gettysburg  to  free  others.  Yet  the 
yoke  remains ;  we  have  only  shifted  it  to  the  other  shoul- 
der. We  talk  of  liberty — oh,  the  farce  of  it,  oh,  the  folly 
of  it !  We  tell  ourselves  and  teach  our  children  that  we 
have  achieved  liberty,  that  we  no  longer  need  fight  for  it. 
Why,  the  fight  is  just  beginning  and  so  long  as  our  con- 
ception of  liberty  remains  as  it  is  to-day,  it  will  continue. 

"  For  we  conceive  of  Liberty  in  the  statues  we  raise  to 
her  as  a  beautiful  woman,  crowned,  victorious,  in  bright 
armour  and  white  robes,  a  light  in  her  uplifted  hand — a 
serene,  calm,  conquering  goddess.  Oh,  the  farce  of  it, 


552  The  Octopus 

oh,  the  folly  of  it!  Liberty  is  not  a  crowned  goddess, 
beautiful,  in  spotless  garments,  victorious,  supreme.  Lib- 
erty is  the  Man  In  the  Street,  a  terrible  figure,  rushing 
through  powder  smoke,  fouled  with  the  mud  and  ordure 
of  the  gutter,  bloody,  rampant,  brutal,  yelling  curses,  in 
one  hand  a  smoking  rifle,  in  the  other,  a  blazing  torch. 

"Freedom  is  not  given  free  to  any  who  ask;  Liberty 
is  not  born  of  the  gods-.  She  is  a  child  of  the  People, 
born  in  the  very  height  and  heat  of  battle,  born  from 
death,  stained  with  blood,  grimed  with  powder.  And 
she  grows  to  be  not  a  goddess,  but  a  Fury,  a  fearful 
figure,  slaying  friend  and  foe  alike,  raging,  insatiable, 
merciless,  the  Red  Terror." 

Presley  ceased  speaking.  Weak,  shaking,  scarcely 
knowing  what  he  was  about,  he  descended  from  the  stage. 
A  prolonged  explosion  of  applause  followed,  the  Opera 
House  roaring  to  the  roof,  men  cheering,  stamping,  wav- 
ing their  hats.  But  it  was  not  intelligent  applause.  In- 
stinctively as  he  made  his  way  out,  Presley  knew  that, 
after  all,  he  had  not  once  held  the  hearts  of  his  audience. 
He  had  talked  as  he  would  have  written ;  for  all  his 
scorn  of  literature,  he  had  been  literary.  The  men  who 
listened  to  him,  ranchers,  country  people,  store-keepers, 
attentive  though  they  were,  were  not  once  sympathetic. 
Vaguely  they  had  felt  that  here  was  something  which 
other  men — more  educated — would  possibly  consider  elo- 
quent. They  applauded  vociferously  but  perfunctorily,  in 
order  to  appear  to  understand. 

Presley,  for  all  his  love  of  the  people,  saw  clearly  for 
one  moment  that  he  was  an  outsider  to  their  minds.  He 
had  not  helped  them  nor  their  cause  in  the  least ;  he  never 
would. 

Disappointed,  bewildered,  ashamed,  he  made  his  way 
slowly  from  the  Opera  House  and  stood  on  the  steps  out- 
side, thoughtful,  his  head  bent. 


A  Story  of  California  553 

He  had  failed,  thus  he  told  himself.  In  that  moment  of 
crisis,  that  at  the  time  he  believed  had  been  an  inspira- 
tion, he  had  failed.  The  people  would  not  consider  him, 
would  not  believe  that  he  could  do  them  service.  Then 
suddenly  he  seemed  to  remember.  The  resolute  set  of 
his  lips  returned  once  more.  Pushing"  his  way  through 
the  crowded  streets,  he  went  on  towards  the  stable  where 
he  had  left  his  pony. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  Opera  House,  a  great  commotion 
had  occurred.  Magnus  Derrick  had  appeared. 

Only  a  sense  of  enormous  responsibility,  of  gravest 
duty  could  have  prevailed  upon  Magnus  to  have  left  his 
house  and  the  dead  body  of  his  son  that  day.  But  he 
was  the  President  of  the  League,  and  never  since  its 
organisation  had  a  meeting  of  such  importance  as  this 
one  been  held.  He  had  been  in  command  at  the  irrigating 
ditch  the  day  before.  It  was  he  who  had  gathered  the 
handful  of  Leaguers  together.  It  was  he  who  must  bear 
the  responsibility  of  the  fight. 

When  he  had  entered  the  Opera  House,  making  hfe 
way  down  the  central  aisle  towards  the  stage,  a  loud 
disturbance  had  broken  out,  partly  applause,  partly  a 
meaningless  uproar.  Many  had  pressed  forward  to  shake 
his  hand,  but  others  were  not  found  wanting  who,  for- 
merly his  staunch  supporters,  now  scenting  opposition  in 
the  air,  held  back,  hesitating,  afraid  to  compromise  them- 
selves by  adhering  to  the  fortunes  of  a  man  whose  actions 
might  be  discredited  by  the  very  organisation  of  which 
he  was  the  head. 

Declining  to  take  the  chair  of  presiding  officer  which 
Garnett  offered  him,  the  Governor  withdrew  to  an  angle 
of  the  stage,  where  he  was  joined  by  Keast. 

This  one,  still  unalterably  devoted  to  Magnus,  ac- 
quainted him  briefly  with  the  tenor  of  the  speeches  that 
had  been  made. 


551  The  Octopus 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  them,  Governor/'  he  protested  in- 
dignantly, "  to  lose  their  nerve  now !  To  fail  you  now  I 
it  makes  my  blood  boil.  If  you  had  succeeded  yester- 
day, if  all  had  gone  well,  do  you  think  we  would  have 
heard  of  any  talk  of  '  assumption  of  authority,'  or  '  acting 
without  advice  and  consent '  ?  As  if  there  was  any  time 
to  call  a  meeting  of  the  Executive  Committee.  If  you 
hadn't  acted  as  you  did,  the  whole  county  would  have 
been  grabbed  by  the  Railroad.  Get  up,  Governor,  and 
bring  'em  all  up  standing.  Just  tear  'em  all  to  pieces, 
show  'em  that  you  are  the  head,  the  boss.  That's  what 
they  need.  That  killing  yesterday  has  shaken  the  nerve 
clean  out  of  them." 

For  the  instant  the  Governor  was  taken  all  aback. 
What,  his  lieutenants  were  failing  him  ?  What,  he  was  to 
be  questioned,  interpolated  upon  yesterday's  *'*  irrepres- 
sible conflict"?  Had  disaffection  appeared  in  the  ranks 
of  the  League — at  this,  of  all  moments  ?  He  put  from  him 
his  terrible  grief.  The  cause  was  in  danger.  At  the  in- 
stant he  was  the  President  of  the  League  only,  the  chief, 
the  master.  A  royal  anger  surged  within  him,  a  wide, 
towering  scorn  of  opposition.  He  would  crush  this  dis- 
affection in  its  incipiency,  would  vindicate  himself  and 
strengthen  the  cause  at  one  and  the  same  time.  He 
stepped  forward  and  stood  in  the  speaker's  place,  turning 
partly  toward  the  audience,  partly  toward  the  assembled 
Leaguers. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  League,"  he  began,  "  citizens  of 
Bonneville " 

But  at  once  the  silence  in  which  the  Governor  had 
begun  to  speak  was  broken  by  a  shout.  It  was  as  though 
his  words  had  furnished  a  signal.  In  a  certain  quarter 
of  the  gallery,  directly  opposite,  a  man  arose,  and  in  a 
voice  partly  of  derision,  partly  of  defiance,  cried  out : 

"How  about  the  bribery  of  those  two  delegates  at 


A  Story  of  California  555 

Sacramento?  Tell  us  about  that.  That's  what  we  want 
to  hear  about." 

A  great  confusion  broke  out.  The  first  cry  was  re- 
peated not  only  by  the  original  speaker,  but  by  a  whole 
group  of  which  he  was  but  a  part.  Others  in  the  audi- 
ence, however,  seeing  in  the  disturbance  only  the 
clamour  of  a  few  Railroad  supporters,  attempted  to  howl 
them  down,  hissing  vigorously  and  exclaiming: 

"  Put  'em  out,  put  'em  out." 

"Order,  order,"  called  Garnett,  pounding  with  his 
gavel.  The  whole  Opera  House  was  in  an  uproar. 

But  the  interruption  of  the  Governor's  speech  was  evi- 
dently not  unpremeditated.  It  began  to  look  like  a  de- 
liberate and  planned  attack.  Persistently,  doggedly,  the 
group  in  the  gallery  vociferated : 

"  Tell  us  how  you  bribed  the  delegates  at  Sacramento. 
Before  you  throw  mud  at  the  Railroad,  let's  see  if  you 
are  clean  yourself." 

"  Put  'em  out,  put  'em  out." 

"  Briber,  briber — Magnus  Derrick,  unconvicted  briber ! 
Put  him  out." 

Keast,  beside  himself  with  anger,  pushed  down  the 
aisle  underneath  where  the  recalcitrant  group  had  its 
place  and,  shaking  his  fist,  called  up  at  them : 

"  You  were  paid  to  break  up  this  meeting.  If  you 
have  anything  to  say,  you  will  be  afforded  the  oppor- 
tunity, but  if  you  do  not  let  the  gentleman  proceed,  the 
police  will  be  called  upon  to  put  you  out." 

But  at  this,  the  man  who  had  raised  the  first  shout 
leaned  over  the  balcony  rail,  and,  his  face  flaming  with 
wrath,  shouted: 

"  Yah!  talk  to  me  of  your  police.  Look  out  we  don't 
call  on  them  first  to  arrest  your  President  for  bribery. 
You  and  your  howl  about  law  and  justice  and  corruption! 
Here  " — he  turned  to  the  audience — "  read  about  him, 


556  The  Octopus 

read  the  story  of  how  the  Sacramento  convention  was 
bought  by  Magnus  Derrick,  President  of  the  San 
Joaquin  League.  Here's  the  facts  printed  and  proved." 

With  the  words,  he  stooped  down  and  from  under  his 
seat  dragged  forth  a  great  package  of  extra  editions  of 
the  "  Bonneville  Mercury,"  not  an  hour  off  the  presses. 
Other  equally  large  bundles  of  the  paper  appeared  in 
the  hands  of  the  surrounding  group.  The  strings  were 
cut  and  in  handfuls  and  armfuls  the  papers  were  flung 
out  over  the  heads  of  the  audience  underneath.  The  air 
was  full  of  the  flutter  of  the  newly  printed  sheets.  They 
swarmed  over  the  rim  of  the  gallery  like  clouds  of  mon- 
strous, winged  insects,  settled  upon  the  heads  and  into 
the  hands  of  the  audience,  were  passed  swiftly  from  man 
to  man,  and  within  five  minutes  of  the  first  outbreak 
every  one  in  the  Opera  House  had  read  Genslinger's  de- 
tailed and  substantiated  account  of  Magnus  Derrick's 
"  deal  "  with  the  political  bosses  of  the  Sacramento  con- 
vention. 

Genslinger,  after  pocketing  the  Governor's  hush  money, 
had  "sold  him  out." 

Keast,  one  quiver  of  indignation,  made  his  way  back 
upon  the  stage.  The  Leaguers  were  in  wild  confusion. 
Half  the  assembly  of  them  were  on  their  feet,  bewildered, 
shouting  vaguely.  From  proscenium  wall  to  foyer,  the 
Opera  House  was  a  tumult  of  noise.  The  gleam  of  the 
thousands  of  the  "  Mercury  "  extras  was  like  the  flash  of 
white  caps  on  a  troubled  sea. 

Keast  faced  the  audience. 

"Liars,"  he  shouted,  striving  with  all  the  power  of 
his  voice  to  dominate  the  clamour,  "  liars  and  slanderers. 
Your  paper  is  the  paid  organ  of  the  corporation.  You 
have  not  one  shadow  of  proof  to  back  you  up.  Do  you 
choose  this,  of  all  times,  to  heap  your  calumny  upon 
the  head  of  an  honourable  gentleman,  already  prostrated 


A  Story  of  California  557 

by  your  murder  of  his  son?  Proofs — we  demand  your 
proofs !  " 

"  We've  got  the  very  assemblymen  themselves,"  came 
back  the  answering  shout.  "  Let  Derrick  speak.  Where 
is  he  hiding?  If  this  is  a  lie,  let  him  deny  it.  Let  him 
disprove  the  charge." 

"  Derrick,  Derrick,"  thundered  the  Opera  House. 

Keast  wheeled  about.  Where  was  Magnus?  He  was 
not  in  sight  upon  the  stage.  He  had  disappeared. 
Crowding  through  the  throng  of  Leaguers,  Keast  got 
from  off  the  stage  into  the  wings.  Here  the  crowd 
was  no  lees  dense.  Nearly  every  one  had  a  copy  of  the 
"  Mercury."  It  was  being  read  aloud  to  groups  here  and 
there,  and  once  Keast  overheard  the  words,  "  Say,  I  won- 
der if  this  is  true,  after  all?" 

"  Well,  and  even  if  it  was,"  cried  Keast,  turning  upon 
the  speaker,  "  we  should  be  the  last  ones  to  kick.  In 
any  case,  it  was  done  for  our  benefit.  It  elected  the 
Ranchers'  Commission." 

"  A  lot  of  benefit  we  got  out  of  the  Ranchers'  Com- 
mission," retorted  the  other. 

"  And  then,"  protested  a  third  speaker,  "  that  ain't  the 
way  to  do — if  he  did  do  it — bribing  legislatures.  Why, 
we  were  bucking  against  corrupt  politics.  We  couldn't 
afford  to  be  corrupt." 

Keast  turned  away  with  a  gesture  of  impatience.  He 
pushed  his  way  farther  on.  At  last,  opening  a  small 
door  in  a  hallway  back  of  the  stage,  he  came  upon 
Magnus. 

The  room  was  tiny.  It  was  a  dressing-room.  Only 
two  nights  before  it  had  been  used  by  the  leading  actress 
of  a  comic  opera  troupe  which  had  played  for  three 
nights  at  Bonneville.  A  tattered  sofa  and  limping  toilet 
table  occupied  a  third  of  the  space.  The  air  was  heavy 
with  the  smell  of  stale  grease  paint,  ointments,  and  sachet 


558  The  Octopus 

Faded  photographs  of  young  women  in  tights  and  gauzes 
ornamented  the  mirror  and  the  walls.  Underneath  the 
sofa  was  an  old  pair  of  corsets.  The  spangled  skirt  of  a 
pink  dress,  turned  inside  out,  hung  against  the  wall. 

And  in  the  midst  of  such  environment,  surrounded  by 
an  excited  group  of  men  who  gesticulated  and  shouted 
in  his  very  face,  pale,  alert,  agitated,  his  thin  lips  pressed 
tightly  together,  stood  Magnus  Derrick. 

"  Here,"  cried  Keast,  as  he  entered,  closing  the  door 
behind  him,  "  where's  the  Governor  ?  Here,  Magnus, 
I've  been  looking  for  you.  The  crowd  has  gone  wild 
out  there.  You've  got  to  talk  'em  down.  Come  out 
there  and  give  those  blacklegs  the  lie.  They  are  saying 
you  are  hiding." 

But  before  Magnus  could  reply,  Garnett  turned  to 
Keast. 

"Well,  that's  what  we  want  him  to  do,  and  he  won't 
do  it." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  the  half-dozen  men  who  crowded 
around  Magnus,  "yes,  that's  what  we  want  him  to  do." 

Keast  turned  to  Magnus. 

"  Why,  what's  all  this,  Governor  ? "  he  exclaimed. 
"  You've  got  to  answer  that.  Hey  ?  why  don't  you  give 
'em  the  lie?" 

"  I — I,"  Magnus  loosened  the  collar  about  his  throat, 
"  it  is  a  lie.  I  will  not  stoop — I  would  not — would  be — • 
it  would  be  beneath  my — my — it  would  be  beneath  me." 

Keast  stared  in  amazement.  Was  this  the  Great  Man, 
the  Leader,  indomitable,  of  Roman  integrity,  of  Roman 
valour,  before  whose  voice  whole  conventions  had 
quailed?  Was  it  possible  he  was  afraid  to  face  those 
hired  villifiers? 

"  Well,  how  about  this  ?  "  demanded  Garnett  suddenly. 
"  It  is  a  lie,  isn't  it?  That  Commission  was  elected  hon- 
estly, wasn't  it?" 


A  Story  of  California  559 

"  How  dare  you,  sir !  "  Magnus  burst  out.  "  How  dare 
you  question  me — call  me  to  account!  Please  under- 
stand, sir,  that  I  tolerate " 

"  Oh,  quit  it !  "  cried  a  voice  from  the  group.  "  You 
can't  scare  us,  Derrick.  That  sort  of  talk  was  well 
enough  once,  but  it  don't  go  any  more.  We  want  a  yes 
or  no  answer." 

It  was  gone — that  old-time  power  of  mastery,  that 
faculty  of  command.  The  ground  crumbled  beneath  his 
feet.  Long  since  it  had  been,  by  his  own  hand,  under- 
mined. Authority  was  gone.  Why  keep  up  this  miser- 
able sham  any  longer?  Could  they  not  read  the  lie  in 
his  face,  in  his  voice?  What  a  folly  to  maintain  the 
wretched  pretence !  He  had  failed.  He  was  ruined. 
Harran  was  gone.  His  ranch  would  soon  go ;  his  money 
was  gone.  Lyman  was  worse  than  dead.  His  own. 
honour  had  been  prostituted.  Gone,  gone,  everything  he 
held  dear,  gone,  lost,  and  swept  away  in  that  fierce  strug- 
gle. And  suddenly  and  all  in  a  moment  the  last  remain- 
ing shells  of  the  fabric  of  his  being,  the  sham  that  had 
stood  already  wonderfully  long,  cracked  and  collapsed. 

"  Was  the  Commission  honestly  elected  ? "  insisted 
Garnett.  "  Were  the  delegates — did  you  bribe  the  dele- 
gates?" 

"  We  were  obliged  to  shut  our  eyes  to  means,"  faltered 
Magnus.  "  There  was  no  other  way  to — "  Then  sud- 
denly and  with  the  last  dregs  of  his  resolution,  he  con- 
cluded with :  "  Yes,  I  gave  them  two  thousand  dollars 
each." 

"  Oh,  hell !  Oh,  my  God  !  "  exclaimed  Keast,  sitting 
swiftly  down  upon  the  ragged  sofa. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  A  sense  of  poignant  em- 
barrassment descended  upon  those  present.  No  one  knew 
what  to  say  or  where  to  look.  Garnett,  with  a  laboured 
attempt  at  nonchalance,  murmured: 


560  The  Octopus 

"  I  see.  Well,  that's  what  I  was  trying  to  get  at.  Yes, 
I  see." 

"  Well,"  said  Gethings  at  length,  bestirring  himself, 
"  I  guess  /'//  go  home." 

There  was  a  movement.  The  group  broke  up,  the  men 
making  for  the  door.  One  by  one  they  went  out.  The 
last  to  go  was  Keast.  He  came  up  to  Magnus  and  shook 
the  Governor's  limp  hand. 

"  Good-bye,  Governor,"  he  said.  "  I'll  see  you  again 
pretty  soon.  Don't  let  this  discourage  you.  They'll 
come  around  all  right  after  a  while.  So  long." 

He  went  out,  shutting  the  door. 

And  seated  in  the  one  chair  of  the  room,  Magnus  Der- 
rick remained  a  long  time,  looking  at  his  face  in  the 
cracked  mirror  that  for  so  many  years  had  reflected  the 
painted  faces  of  soubrettes,  in  this  atmosphere  of  stale 
perfume  and  mouldy  rice  powder. 

It  had  come — his  fall,  his  ruin.  After  so  many  years 
of  integrity  and  honest  battle,  his  life  had  ended  here — 
in  an  actress's  dressing-room,  deserted  by  his  friends,  his 
son  murdered,  his  dishonesty  known,  an  old  man,  broken, 
discarded,  discredited,  and  abandoned. 

Before  nightfall  of  that  day,  Bonneville  was  further  ex- 
cited by  an  astonishing  bit  of  news.  S.  Behrman  lived 
in  a  detached  house  at  some  distance  from  the  town,  sur- 
rounded by  a  grove  of  live  oak  and  eucalyptus  trees.  At 
a  little  after  half-past  six,  as  he  was  sitting  down  to  his 
supper,  a  bomb  was  thrown  through  the  window  of  his 
dining-room,  exploding  near  the  doorway  leading  into 
the  hall.  The  room  was  wrecked  and  nearly  every  win- 
dow of  the  house  shattered.  By  a  miracle,  S.  Behrman, 
himself,  remained  untouched. 


VIII 


On  a  certain  afternoon  in  the  early  part  of  July,  about 
a  month  after  the  fight  at  the  irrigating  ditch  and  the 
mass  meeting  at  Bonneville,  Cedarquist,  at  the  moment 
opening  his  mail  in  his  office  in  San  Francisco,  vvas  gen- 
uinely surprised  to  receive  a  visit  from  Presley. 

"  Well,  upon  my  word,  Pres,"  exclaimed  the  manu- 
facturer, as  the  young  man  came  in  through  the  door 
that  the  office  boy  held  open  for  him,  "upon  my  word, 
have  you  been  sick?  Sit  down,  my  boy.  Have  a  glass 
of  sherry.  I  always  keep  a  bottle  here." 

Presley  accepted  the  wine  and  sank  into  the  depths  of 
a  great  leather  chair  near  by. 

"  Sick  ?  "  he  answered.  "  Yes,  I  have  been  sick.  I'm 
sick  now.  I'm  gone  to  pieces,  sir." 

His  manner  was  the  extreme  of  listlessness — the  list- 
lessness  of  great  fatigue.  "Well,  well,"  observed  the 
other.  "I'm  right  sorry  to  hear  that.  What's  the 
trouble,  Pres  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nerves  mostly,  I  suppose,  and  my  head,  and 
insomnia,  and  weakness,  a  general  collapse  all  along  the 
line,  the  doctor  tells  me.  '  Over-cerebration,'  he  says ; 
'  over-excitement.'  I  fancy  I  rather  narrowly  missed 
brain  fever." 

"  Well,  I  can  easily  suppose  it,"  answered  Cedarquist 
gravely,  "  after  all  you  have  been  through." 

Presley  closed  his  eyes — they  were  sunken  in  circles  of 
dark  brown  flesh — and  pressed  a  thin  hand  to  the  back 
of  his  head. 
36 


562  The  Octopus 

"  It  is  a  nightmare,"  he  murmured.  "  A  frightful  night- 
mare, and  it's  not  over  yet.  You  have  heard  of  it  all 
only  through  the  newspaper  reports.  But  down  there,  at 
Bonneville,  at  Los  Muertos — oh,  you  can  have  no  idea 
of  it,  of  the  misery  caused  by  the  defeat  of  the  ranchers 
and  by  this  decision  of  the  Supreme  Court  that  dis- 
possesses them  all.  We  had  gone  on  hoping  to  the  last 
that  we  would  win  there.  We  had  thought  that  in  the 
Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States,  at  least,  we  could 
find  justice.  And  the  news  of  its  decision  was  the  worst, 
last  blow  of  all.  For  Magnus  it  was  the  last — positively 
the  very  last." 

"  Poor,  poor  Derrick,"  murmured  Cedarquist.  "  Tell 
me  about  him,  Pres.  How  does  he  take  it?  What  is  he 
going  to  do  ?  " 

"  It  beggars  him,  sir.  He  sunk  a  great  deal  more  than 
any  of  us  believed  in  his  ranch,  when  he  resolved  to 
turn  off  most  of  the  tenants  and  farm  the  ranch  himself. 
Then  the  fight  he  made  against  the  Railroad  in  the  Courts 
and  the  political  campaign  he  went  into,  to  get  Lyman  on 
the  Railroad  Commission,  took  more  of  it.  The  money 
that  Genslinger  blackmailed  him  of,  it  seems,  was  about 
all  he  had  left.  He  had  been  gambling — you  know  the 
Governor — on  another  bonanza  crop  this  year  to  recoup 
him.  Well,  the  bonanza  came  right  enough — just  in 
time  for  S.  Behrman  and  the  Railroad  to  grab  it.  Mag- 
nus is  ruined." 

"What  a  tragedy!  what  a  tragedy!"  murmured  the 
other.  "  Lyman  turning  rascal,  Harran  killed,  and  now 
this ;  and  all  within  so  short  a  time — all  at  the  same  time, 
you  might  almost  say." 

"If  it  had  only  killed  him,"  continued  Presley;  "but 
that  is  the  worst  of  it." 

"How  the  worst?" 

"  I'm  afraid,  honestly,  I'm  afraid  it  is  going  to  turn 


A  Story  of  California  563 

his  wits,  sir.  It's  broken  him;  oh,  you  should  see  him, 
you  should  see  him.  A  shambling,  stooping,  trembling 
old  man,  in  his  dotage  already.  He  sits  all  day  in  the 
dining-room,  turning  over  papers,  sorting  them,  tying 
them  up,  opening  them  again,  forgetting  them — all 
fumbling  and  mumbling  and  confused.  And  at  table 
sometimes  he  forgets  to  eat.  And,  listen,  you  know,  from 
the  house  we  can  hear  the  trains  whistling  for  the  Long 
Trestle.  As  often  as  that  happens  the  Governor  seems 
to  be — oh,  I  don't  know,  frightened.  He  will  sink  his 
head  between  his  shoulders,  as  though  he  were  dodging 
something,  and  he  won't  fetch  a  long  breath  again  till 
the  train  is  out  of  hearing.  He  seems  to  have  conceived 
an  abject,  unreasoned  terror  of  the  Railroad." 

"  But  he  will  have  to  leave  Los  Muertos  now,  of 
course  ? " 

"Yes,  they  will  all  have  to  leave.  They  have  a  fortnight 
more.  The  few  tenants  that  were  still  on  Los  Muertos 
are  leaving.  That  is  one  thing  that  brings  me  to  the 
city.  The  family  of  one  of  the  men  who  was  killed — 
Hooven  was  his  name — have  come  to  the  city  to  find 
work.  I  think  they  are  liable  to  be  in  great  distress, 
unless  they  have  been  wonderfully  lucky,  and  I  am  trying 
to  find  them  in  order  to  look  after  them." 

"  You  need  looking  after  yourself,  Pres." 

"  Oh,  once  away  from  Bonneville  and  the  sight  of  the 
ruin  there,  I'm  better.  But  I  intend  to  go  away.  And 
that  makes  me  think,  I  came  to  ask  you  if  you  could 
help  me.  If  you  would  let  me  take  passage  on  one  of 
your  wheat  ships.  The  Doctor  says  an  ocean  voyage 
would  set  me  up." 

"Why,  certainly,  Pres,"  declared  Cedarquist.  "But 
I'm  sorry  you'll  have  to  go.  We  expected  to  have  you 
down  in  the  country  with  us  this  winter." 

Presley  shook  his  head. 


564  The  Octopus 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  I  must  go.  Even  if  I  had  all 
my  health,  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  stay  in  California 
just  now.  If  you  can  introduce  me  to  one  of  your 
captains " 

"  With  pleasure.  When  do  you  want  to  go  ?  You 
may  have  to  wait  a  few  weeks.  Our  first  ship  won't 
clear  till  the  end  of  the  month." 

"  That  would  do  very  well.     Thank  you,  sir." 

But  Cedarquist  was  still  interested  in  the  land  troubles 
of  the  Bonneville  farmers,  and  took  the  first  occasion 
to  ask: 

"  So,  the  Railroad  are  in  possession  on  most  of  the 
ranches  ?  " 

"On  all  of  them,"  returned  Presley.  "The  League 
went  all  to  pieces,  so  soon  as  Magnus  was  forced  to 
resign.  The  old  story — they  got  quarrelling  among 
themselves.  Somebody  started  a  compromise  party,  and 
upon  that  issue  a  new  president  was  elected,  Then  there 
were  defections.  The  Railroad  offered  to  lease  the  lands 
in  question  to  the  ranchers — the  ranchers  who  owned 
them,"  he  exclaimed  bitterly,  "and  because -the  terms 
were  nominal — almost  nothing — plenty  of  the  men  took 
the  chance  of  saving  themselves.  And,  of  course,  once 
signing  the  lease,  they  acknowledged  the  Railroad's  title. 
But  the  road  would  not  lease  to  Magnus.  S.  Behrman 
takes  over  Los  Muertos  in  a  few  weeks  now." 

"  No  doubt,  the  road  made  over  their  title  in  the  prop- 
erty to  him,"  observed  Cedarquist,  "as  a  reward  of  his 
services." 

"No  doubt/'  murmured  Presley  wearily.  He  rose 
to  go. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Cedarquist,  "  what  have  you  on 
hand  for,  let  us  say,  Friday  evening?  Won't  you  dine 
with  us  then?  The  girls  are  going  to  the  country  Mon- 
day of  next  week,  and  you  probably  won't  see  them 


A  Story  of  California  565 

again  for  some  time  if  you  take  that  ocean  voyage  of 
yours." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  shall  be  very  poor  company,  sir," 
hazarded  Presley.  "  There's  no  '  go,'  no  life  in  me  at 
all  these  days.  I  am  like  a  clock  with  a  broken  spring." 

"  Not  broken,  Pres,  my  boy,"  urged  the  other,  "  only 
run  down.  Try  and  see  if  we  can't  wind  you  up  a  bit. 
Say  that  we  can  expect  you.  We  dine  at  seven/' 

"  Thank  you,  sir.     Till  Friday  at  seven,  then." 

Regaining  the  street,  Presley  sent  his  valise  to  his  club 
(where  he  had  engaged  a  room)  by  a  messenger  boy, 
and  boarded  a  Castro  Street  car.  Before^leaving  Bonne- 
ville,  he  had  ascertained,  by  strenuous  enquiry,  Mrs. 
Hooven's  address  in  the  city,  and  thitherward  he  now 
directed  his  steps. 

When  Presley  had  told  Cedarquist  that  he  was  ill,  that 
he  was  jaded,  worn  out,  he  had  only  told  half  the  truth. 
Exhausted  he  was,  nerveless,  weak,  but  this  apathy  was 
still  invaded  from  time  to  time  with  fierce  incursions  of 
a  spirit  of  unrest  and  revolt,  reactions,  momentary  re- 
turns of  the  blind,  undirected  energy  that  at  one  time  had 
prompted  him  to  a  vast  desire  to  acquit  himself  of  some 
terrible  deed  of  readjustment,  just  what,  he  could  not 
say,  some  terrifying  martyrdom,  some  awe-inspiring  im- 
molation, consummate,  incisive,  conclusive.  He  fancied 
himself  to  be  fired  with  the  purblind,  mistaken  heroism 
of  the  anarchist,  hurling  his  victim  to  destruction  with 
full  knowledge  that  the  catastrophe  shall  sweep  him  also 
into  the  vortex  it  creates. 

But  his  constitutional  irresoluteness  obstructed  his  path 
continually;  brain-sick,  weak  of  will,  emotional,  timid 
even,  he  temporised,  procrastinated,  brooded ;  came  to  de- 
cisions in  the  dark  hours  of  the  night,  only  to  abandon 
them  in  the  morning. 

Once  only  he  had  acted.    And  at  this  moment,  as  he 


566  The  Octopus 

was  carried  through  the  windy,  squalid  streets,  he  trem- 
bled at  the  remembrance  of  it.  The  horror  of  "  what 
might  have  been  "  incompatible  with  the  vengeance  whose 
minister  he  fancied  he  was,  oppressed  him.  The  scene 
perpetually  reconstructed  itself  in  his  imagination.  He 
saw  himself  under  the  shade  of  the  encompassing  trees 
and  shrubbery,  creeping  on  his  belly  toward  the  house, 
in  the  suburbs  of  Bonneville,  watching  his  chances,  seizing 
opportunities,  spying  upon  the  lighted  windows  where 
the  raised  curtains  afforded  a  view  of  the  interior.  Then 
had  come  the  appearance  in  the  glare  of  the  gas  of  the 
figure  of  the  man  for  whom  he  waited.  He  saw  himself 
rise  and  run  forward.  He  remembered  the  feel  and 
weight  in  his  hand  of  Caraher's  bomb — the  six  inches  of 
plugged  gas  pipe.  His  upraised  arm  shot  forward. 
There  was  a  shiver  of  smashed  window-panes,  then — a 
void — a  red  whirl  of  confusion,  the  air  rent,  the  ground 
rocking,  himself  flung  headlong,  flung  off  the  spinning 
circumference  of  things  out  into  a  place  of  terror  and 
vacancy  and  darkness.  And  then  after  a  long  time  the 
return  of  reason,  the  consciousness  that  his  feet  were 
set  upon  the  road  to  Los  Muertos,  and  that  he  was  fleeing 
terror-stricken,  gasping,  all  but  insane  with  hysteria. 
Then  the  never-to-be-forgotten  night  that  ensued,  when 
he  descended  into  the  pit,  horrified  at  what  he  supposed 
he  had  done,  at  one  moment  ridden  with  remorse,  at  an- 
other raging  against  his  own  feebleness,  his  lack  of  cour- 
age, his  wretched,  vacillating  spirit.  But  morning  had 
come,  and  with  it  the  knowledge  that  he  had  failed,  and 
the  baser  assurance  that  he  was  not  even  remotely  sus- 
pected. His  own  escape  had  been  no  less  miraculous 
than  that  of  his  enemy,  and  he  had  fallen  on  his  knees 
in  inarticulate  prayer,  weeping,  pouring  out  his  thanks 
to  God  for  the  deliverance  from  the  gulf  to  the  very 
brink  of  which  his  feet  had  been  drawn. 


A  Story  of  California  567 

After  this,  however,  there  had  come  to  Presley  a  deep- 
rooted  suspicion  that  he  was — of  all  human  beings,  the 
most  wretched — a  failure.  Everything  to  which  he  had 
set  his  mind  failed — his  great  epic,  his  efforts  to  help 
the  people  who  surrounded  him,  even  his  attempted  de- 
struction of  the  enemy,  all  these  had  come  to  nothing. 
Girding  his  shattered  strength  together,  he  resolved  upon 
one  last  attempt  to  live  up  to  the  best  that  was  in  him, 
and  to  that  end  had  set  himself  to  lift  out  of  the  despair 
into  which  they  had  been  thrust,  the  bereaved  family  of 
the  German,  Hooven. 

After  all  was  over,  and  Hooven,  together  with  the 
seven  others  who  had  fallen  at  the  irrigating  ditch,  was 
buried  in  the  Bonneville  cemetery,  Mrs.  Hooven,  asking 
no  one's  aid  or  advice,  and  taking  with  her  Minna  and 
little  Hilda,  had  gone  to  San  Francisco — had  gone  to  find 
work,  abandoning  Los  Muertos  and  her  home  forever. 
Presley  only  learned  of  the  departure  of  the  family  after 
fifteen  days  had  elapsed. 

At  once,  however,  the  suspicion  forced  itself  upon  him 
that  Mrs.  Hooven — and  Minna,  too  for  the  matter  of  that 
— country-bred,  ignorant  of  eity  ways,  might  easily  come 
to  grief  in  the  hard,  huge  struggle  of  city  life.  This 
stispicion  had  swiftly  hardened  to  a  conviction,  acting 
at  last  upon  which  Presley  had  followed  them  to  San 
Francisco,  bent  upon  finding  and  assisting  them. 

The  house  to  which  Presley  was  led  by  the  address 
in  his  memorandum  book  was  a  cheap  but  fairly  decent 
hotel  near  the  power  house  of  the  Castro  Street  cable. 
He  inquired  for  Mrs.  Hooven. 

The  landlady  recollected  the  Hoovens  perfectly. 

"  German  woman,  with  a  little  girl-baby,  and  an  older 
daughter,  sure.  The  older  daughter  was  main  pretty. 
Sure  I  remember  them,  but  they  ain't  here  no  more. 
They  left  a  week  ago.  I  had  to  ask  them  for  their  room. 


568  The  Octopus 

As  it  was,  they  owed  a  week's  room-rent.  Mister,  I 
can't  afford " 

"  Well,  do  you  know  where  they  went?  Did  you  hear 
what  address  they  had  their  trunk  expressed  to?" 

"  Ah,  yes,  their  trunk,"  vociferated  the  woman,  clap- 
ping her  hands  to  her  hips,  her  face  purpling.  "  Their 
trunk,  ah,  sure.  I  got  their  trunk,  and  what  are  you  go- 
ing to  do  about  it  ?  I'm  holding  it  till  I  get  my  money. 
What  have  you  got  to  say  about  it  ?  Let's  hear  it." 

Presley  turned  away  with  a  gesture  of  discouragement, 
his  heart  sinking.  On  the  street  corner  he  stood  for  a 
long  time,  frowning  in  trouble  and  perplexity.  His  sus- 
picions had  been  only  too  well  founded.  So  long  ago 
as  a  week,  the  Hoovens  had  exhausted  all  their  little 
store  of  money.  For  seven  days  now  they  had  been 
without  resources,  unless,  indeed,  work  had  been  found ; 
"  and  what,"  he  asked  himself,  "  what  work  in  God's 
name  could  they  find  to  do  here  in  the  city  ?  " 

Seven  days !  He  quailed  at  the  thought  of  it.  Seven 
days  without  money,  knowing  not  a  soul  in  all  that 
swarming  city.  Ignorant  of  city  life  as  both  Minna  and 
her  mother  were,  would  they  even  realise  that  there  were 
institutions  built  and  generously  endowed  for  just  such 
as  they?  He  knew  them  to  have  their  share  of  pride, 
the  dogged  sullen  pride  of  the  peasant;  even  if  they  knew 
of  charitable  organisations,  would  they,  could  they  bring 
themselves  to  apply  there?  A  poignant  anxiety  thrust 
itself  sharply  into  Presley's  heart.  Where  were  they 
now?  Where  had  they  slept  last  night?  Where  break- 
fasted this  morning?  Had  there  even  been  any  break- 
fast this  morning  ?  Had  there  even  been  any  bed  last 
night?  Lost,  and  forgotten  in  the  plexus  of  the  city's 
life,  what  had  befallen  them?  Towards  what  fate  was 
the  ebb  tide  of  the  streets  drifting  them? 

Was  this  to  be  still  another  theme  wrought  out  by  iron 


A  Story  ot  California  569 

hands  upon  the  old,  the  world-old,  world-wide  keynote? 
How  far  were  the  consequences  of  that  dreadful  day's 
work  at  the  irrigating  ditch  to  reach?  To  what  length 
was  the  tentacle  of  the  monster  to  extend? 

Presley  returned  toward  the  central,  the  business  quar- 
ter of  the  city,  alternately  formulating  and  dismissing 
from  his  mind  plan  after  plan  for  the  finding  and  aiding 
of  Mrs.  Hooven  and  her  daughters.  He  reached  Mont- 
gomery Street,  and  turned  toward  his  club,  his  imagina- 
tion once  more  reviewing  all  the  causes  and  circumstances 
of  the  great  battle  of  which  for  the  last  eighteen  months 
he  had  been  witness. 

All  at  once  he  paused,  his  eye  caught  by  a  sign  affixed 
to  the  wall  just  inside  the  street  entrance  of  i.  huge  office 
building,  and  smitten  with  an  idea,  stood  for  an  instant 
motionless,  upon  the  sidewalk,  his  eyes  wide,  his  fists 
shut  tight. 

The  building  contained  the  General  Office  of  the  Pacific 
and  Southwestern  Railroad.  Large  though  it  was,  it 
nevertheless,  was  not  pretentious,  and  during  his  visits 
to  the  city,  Presley  must  have  passed  it,  unheeding,  many 
times. 

But  for  all  that  it  was  the  stronghold  of  the  enemy— 
the  centre  of  all  that  vast  ramifying  system  of  arteries 
that  drained  the  life-blood  of  the  State;  the  nucleus  of 
the  web  in  which  so  many  lives,  so  many  fortunes,  so 
many  destinies  had  been  enmeshed.  From  this  place — • 
so  he  told  himself — had  emanated  that  policy  of  extor- 
tion, oppression  and  injustice  that  little  by  little  had 
shouldered  the  ranchers  from  their  rights,  till,  their  backs 
to  the  wall,  exasperated  and  despairing  they  had  turned 
and  fought  and  died.  From  here  had  come  the  orders 
to  S.  Behrman,  to  Cyrus  Ruggles  and  to  Genslinger,  the 
orders  that  had  brought  Dyke  to  a  prison,  that  had  killed 
Annixter,  that  had  ruined  Magnus,  that  had  corrupted 


570  The  Octopus 

Lyman.  Here  was  the  keep  of  the  castle,  and  here,  be- 
hind one  of  those  many  windows,  in  one  of  those  many 
offices,  his  hand  upon  the  levers  of  his  mighty  engine, 
sat  the  master,  Shelgrim  himself. 

Instantly,  upon  the  realisation  of  this  fact  an  ungovern- 
able desire  seized  upon  Presley,  an  inordinate  curiosity. 
Why  not  see,  face  to  face,  the  man  whose  power  was 
so  vast,  whose  will  was  so  resistless,  whose  potency  for 
evil  so  limitless,  the  man  who  for  so  long  and  so  hope- 
lessly they  had  all  been  righting.  By  reputation  he  knew 
him  to  be  approachable ;  why  should  he  not  then  approach 
him?  Presley  took  his  resolution  in  both  hands.  If  he 
failed  to  act  upon  this  impulse,  he  knew  he  would  never 
act  at  all.  His  heart  beating,  his  breath  coming  short, 
he  entered  the  building,  and  in  a  few  moments  found  him- 
self seated  in  an  ante-room,  his  eyes  fixed  with  hypnotic 
intensity  upon  the  frosted  pane  of  an  adjoining  door, 
whereon  in  gold  letters  was  inscribed  the  word,  "  Presi- 
dent." 

In  the  end,  Presley  had  been  surprised  to  find  that 
Shelgrim  was  still  in.  It  was  already  very  late,  after  six 
o'clock,  and  the  other  offices  in  the  building  were  in  the 
act  of  closing.  Many  of  them  were  already  deserted. 
At  every  instant,  through  the  open  door  of  the  ante- 
room, he  caught  a  glimpse  of  clerks,  office  boys,  book- 
keepers, and  other  employees  hurrying  towards  the  stairs 
and  elevators,  quitting  business  for  the  day.  Shelgrim, 
it  seemed,  still  remained  at  his  desk,  knowing  no  fatigue, 
requiring  no  leisure. 

"  What  time  does  Mr.  Shelgrim  usually  go  home  ? " 
inquired  Presley  of  the  young  man  who  sat  ruling  forms 
at  the  table  in  the  ante-room. 

"  Anywhere  between  half-past  six  and  seven,"  the 
other  answered,  adding,  "  Very  often  he  comes  back  in 
the  evening:." 


A  Story  of  California  571 

And  the  man  was  seventy  years  old.  Presley  could  not 
repress  a  murmur  of  astonishment.  Not  only  mentally, 
then,  was  the  President  of  the  P.  and  S.  W.  a  giant.  Sev- 
enty years  of  age  and  still  at  his  post,  holding  there  with 
the  energy,  with  a  concentration  of  purpose  that  would 
have  wrecked  the  health  and  impaired  the  mind  of  many 
men  in  the  prime  of  their  manhood. 

But  the  next  instant  Presley  set  his  teeth. 

"  It  is  an  ogre's  vitality,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Just 
so  is  the  man-eating  tiger  strong.  The  man  should  have 
energy  who  has  sucked  the  life-blood  from  an  entire 
People." 

A  little  electric  bell  on  the  wall  near  at  hand  trilled 
a  warning.  The  young  man  who  was  ruling  forms  laid 
down  his  pen,  and  opening  the  door  of  the  President's 
office,  thrust  in  his  head,  then  after  a  word  exchanged 
with  the  unseen  occupant  of  the  room,  he  swung  the  door 
wide,  saying  to  Presley : 

"  Mr.  Shelgrim  will  see  you,  sir." 

Presley  entered  a  large,  well  lighted,  but  singularly 
barren  office.  A  well-worn  carpet  was  on  the  floor,  two 
steel  engravings  hung  against  the  wall,  an  extra  chair 
or  two  stood  near  a  large,  plain,  littered  table.  That 
was  absolutely  all,  unless  he  excepted  the  corner  wash- 
stand,  on  which  was  set  a  pitcher  of  ice  water,  covered 
with  a  clean,  stiff  napkin.  "  A  man,  evidently  some  sort 
of  manager's  assistant,  stood  at  the  end  of  the  table, 
leaning  on  the  back  of  one  of  the  chairs.  Shelgrim  him- 
self sat  at  the  table. 

He  was  large,  almost  to  massiveness.  An  iron-grey 
beard  and  a  mustache  that  completely  hid  the  mouth 
covered  the  lower  part  of  his  face.  His  eyes  were  a 
pale  blue,  and  a  little  watery ;  here  and  there  upon  his 
face  were  moth  spots.  But  the  enormous  breadth  of  the 
shoulders  was  what,  at  first,  most  vividly  forced  itself 


572  The  Octopus 

upon  Presley's  notice.  Never  had  he  seen  a  broader 
man;  the  neck,  however,  seemed  in  a  manner  to  have 
settled  into  the  shoulders,  and  furthermore  they  were 
humped  and  rounded,  as  if  to  bear  great  responsibilities, 
and  great  abuse. 

At  the  moment  he  was  wearing  a  silk  skull-cap,  pushed 
to  one  side  and  a  little  awry,  a  frock  coat  of  broadcloth, 
with  long  sleeves,  and  a  waistcoat  from  the  lower  buttons 
of  which  the  cloth  was  worn  and,  upon  the  edges,  rubbed 
away,  showing  the  metal  underneath.  At  the  top  this 
waistcoat  was  unbuttoned  and  in  the  shirt  front  disclosed 
were  two  pearl  studs. 

Presley,  uninvited,  unnoticed  apparently,  sat  down. 
The  assistant  manager  was  in  the  act  of  making  a  report. 
His  voice  was  not  lowered,  and  Presley  heard  every  word 
that  was  spoken. 

The  report  proved  interesting.  It  concerned  a  book- 
keeper in  the  office  of  the  auditor  of  disbursements.  It 
seems  he  was  at  most  times  thoroughly  reliable,  hard- 
working, industrious,  ambitious.  But  at  long  intervals 
the  vice  of  drunkenness  seized  upon  the  man  and  for 
three  days  rode  him  like  a  hag.  Not  only  during  the 
period  of  this  intemperance,  but  for  the  few  days  imme- 
diately following,  the  man  was  useless,  his  work  un- 
trustworthy. He  was  a  family  man  and  earnestly  strove 
to  rid  himself  of  his  habit ;  he  was,  when  sober,  valuable. 
In  consideration  of  these  facts,  he  had  been  pardoned 
again  and  again. 

"  You  remember,  Mr.  Shelgrim,"  observed  the  man- 
ager, "that  you  have  more  than  once  interfered  in  his 
behalf,  when  we  were  disposed  to  let  him  go.  I  don't 
think  we  can  do  anything  with  him,  sir.  He  promises 
to  reform  continually,  but  it  is  the  same  old  story.  This 
last  time  we  saw  nothing  of  him  for  four  days.  Hon- 
estly, Mr.  Shelgrim,  I  think  we  ought  to  let  Tentell  out. 


A  Story  of  California  573 

We  can't  afford  to  keep  him.  He  is  really  losing  us  too 
much  money.  Here's  the  order  ready  now,  if  you  care 
to  let  it  go." 

There  was  a  pause.  Presley  all  attention,  listened 
breathlessly.  The  assistant  manager  laid  before  his 
President  the  typewritten  order  in  question.  The  silence 
lengthened ;  in  the  hall  outside,  the  wrought-iron  door  of 
the  elevator  cage  slid  to  with  a  clash.  Shelgrim  did 
not  look  at  the  order.  He  turned  his  swivel  chair  about 
and  faced  the  windows  behind  him,  looking  out  with 
unseeing  eyes.  At  last  he  spoke : 

"  Tentell  has  a  family,  wife  and  three  children.  .  .  , 
How  much  do  we  pay  him  ?  " 

"  One  hundred  and  thirty." 

"Let's  double  that,  or  say  two  hundred  and  fifty* 
Let's  see  how  that  will  do." 

"  Why — of  course — if  you  say  so,  but  really,  Mr.  Shel- 
grim  «-" 

"  Well,  we'll  try  that,  anyhow." 

Presley  had  not  time  to  readjust  his  perspective  to  this 
new  point  of  view  of  the  President  of  the  P.  and  S.  W. 
before  the  assistant  manager  had  withdrawn.  Shelgrim 
wrote  a  few  memoranda  on  his  calendar  pad,  and  signed 
a  couple  of  letters  before  turning  his  attention  to  Presley. 
At  last,  he  looked  up  and  fixed  the  young  man  with  a 
direct,  grave  glance.  He  did  not  smile.  It  was  some 
time  before  he  spoke.  At  last,  he  said : 

"  Well,  sir." 

Presley  advanced  and  took  a  chair  nearer  at  hand. 
Shelgrim  turned  and  from  his  desk  picked  up  and  con- 
sulted Presley's  card.  Presley  observed  that  he  read 
without  the  use  of  glasses. 

"You,"  he  said,  again  facing  about,  "you  are  the 
young  man  who  wrote  the  poem  called  '  The  Toilers/  " 

"Yes,  sir." 


574  The  Octopus 

"It  seems  to  have  made  a  great  deal  of  talk.  I've 
read  it,  and  I've  seen  the  picture  in  Cedarquist's  house, 
the  picture  you  took  the  idea  from." 

Presley,  his  senses  never  more  alive,  observed  that, 
curiously  enough,  Shelgrim  did  not  move  his  body.  His 
arms  moved,  and  his  head,  but  the  great  bulk  of  the  man 
remained  immobile  in  its  place,  and  as  the  interview 
proceeded  and  this  peculiarity  emphasised  itself,  Presley 
began  to  conceive  the  odd  idea  that  Shelgrim  had,  as  it 
were,  placed  his  body  in  the  chair  to  rest,  while  his  head 
and  brain  and  hands  went  on  working  independently. 
A  saucer  of  shelled  filberts  stood  near  his  elbow,  and 
from  time  to  time  he  picked  up  one  of  these  in  a  great 
thumb  and  forefinger  and  put  it  between  his  teeth. 

"  I've  seen  the  picture  called  '  The  Toilers/  "  continued 
Shelgrim,  "  and  of  the  two,  I  like  the  picture  better  than 
the  poem." 

"The  picture  is  by  a  master,"  Presley  hastened  to 
interpose. 

"  And  for  that  reason,"  said  Shelgrim,  "  it  leaves  noth- 
ing more  to  be  said.  You  might  just  as  well  have  kept 
quiet.  There's  only  one  best  way  to  say  anything.  And 
what  has  made  the  picture  of  '  The  Toilers '  great  is  that 
the  artist  said  in  it  the  best  that  could  be  said  on  the 
subject." 

"  I  had  never  looked  at  it  in  just  that  light,"  observed 
Presley.  He  was  confused,  all  at  sea,  embarrassed. 
What  he  had  expected  to  find  in  Shelgrim,  he  could  not 
have  exactly  said.  But  he  had  been  prepared  to  come 
upon  an  ogre,  a  brute,  a  terrible  man  of  blood  and  iron, 
and  instead  had  discovered  a  sentimentalist  and  an  art 
critic.  No  standards  of  measurement  in  his  mental  equip- 
ment would  apply  to  the  actual  man,  and  it  began  to 
dawn  upon  him  that  possibly  it  was  not  because  these 
standards  were  different  in  kind,  but  that  they  were 


A  Story  of  California  575 

lamentably  deficient  in  size.  He  began  to  see  that  here 
was  the  man  not  only  great,  but  large;  many-sided,  of 
vast  sympathies,  who  understood  with  equal  intelligence, 
the  human  nature  in  an  habitual  drunkard,  the  ethics 
of  a  masterpiece  of  painting,  and  the  financiering  and 
operation  of  ten  thousand  miles  of  railroad. 

"  I  had  never  looked  at  it  in  just  that  light,"  repeated 
Presley.  "  There  is  a  great  deal  in  what  you  say." 

"  If  I  am  to  listen,"  continued  Shelgrim,  "  to  that  kind 
of  talk,  I  prefer  to  listen  to  it  first  hand.  I  would  rather 
listen  to  what  the  great  French  painter  has  to  say,  than 
to  what  you  have  to  say  about  what  he  has  already 
said." 

His  speech,  loud  and  emphatic  at  first,  when  the  idea 
of  what  he  had  to  say  was  fresh  in  his  mind,  lapsed  and 
lowered  itself  at  the  end  of  his  sentences  as  though  he 
had  already  abandoned  and  lost  interest  in  that  thought, 
so  that  the  concluding  words  were  indistinct,  beneath  the 
grey  beard  and  mustache.  Also  at  times  there  was  the 
faintest  suggestion  of  a  lisp. 

"  I  wrote  that  poem,"  hazarded  Presley,  "  at  a  time 
when  I  was  terribly  upset.  I  live,"  he  concluded,  "  or  did 
live  on  the  Los  Muertos  ranch  in  Tulare  County — Mag- 
nus Derrick's  ranch." 

"  The  Railroad's  ranch  leased  to  Mr.  Derrick,"  ob- 
served Shelgrim. 

Presley  spread  out  his  hands  with  a  helpless,  resigned 
gesture. 

"  And,"  continued  the  President  of  the  P.  and  S.  W. 
with  grave  intensity,  looking  at  Presley  keenly,  "  I  sup- 
pose you  believe  I  am  a  grand  old  rascal." 

"  I  believe,"  answered  Presley,  "  I  am  persuaded " 

He  hesitated,  searching  for  his  words. 

"  Believe  this,  young  man,"  exclaimed  Shelgrim,  lay- 
ing a  thick  powerful  forefinger  on  the  table  to  emphasise 


576  The  Octopus 

his  words,  "  try  to  believe  this — to  begin  with — tMt  Rail- 
roads build  themselves.  Where  there  is  a  demand  sooner 
or  later  there  will  be  a  supply.  Mr.  Derrick,  does  he 
grow  his  wheat?  The  Wheat  grows  itself.  What  does 
he  count  for?  Does  he  supply  the  force?  What  do  I 
count  for?  Do  I  build  the  Railroad?  You  are  dealing 
with  forces,  young  man,  when  you  speak  of  Wheat  and 
the  Railroads,  not  with  men.  There  is  the  Wheat,  the 
supply.  It  must  be  carried  to  feed  the  People.  There 
is  the  demand.  The  Wheat  is  one  force,  the  Railroad, 
another,  and  there  is  the  law  that  governs  them — supply 
and  demand.  Men  have  only  little  to  do  in  the  whole 
business.  Complications  may  arise,  conditions  that  bear 
hard  on  the  individual — crush  him  maybe — but  the  Wheat 
will  be  carried  to  feed  the  people  as  inevitably  as  it  will 
grow.  If  you  want  to  fasten  the  blame  of  the  affair  at 
Los  Muertos  on  any  one  person,  you  will  make  a  mistake. 
Blame  conditions,  not  men." 

"  But — but,"  faltered  Presley,  "  you  are  the  head,  you 
control  the  road/' 

"  You  are  a  very  young  man.  Control  the  road !  Can 
I  stop  it?  I  can  go  into  bankruptcy  if  you  like.  But 
otherwise  if  I  run  my  road,  as  a  business  proposition, 
I  can  do  nothing.  I  can  not  control  it.  It  is  a  force 
born  out  of  certain  conditions,  and  I — no  man — can  stop 
it  or  control  it.  Can  your  Mr.  Derrick  stop  the  Wheat 
growing?  He  can  burn  his  crop,  or  he  can  give  it  away, 
or  sell  it  for  a  cent  a  bushel — just  as  I  could  go  into 
bankruptcy — but  otherwise  his  Wheat  must  grow.  Can 
any  one  stop  the  Wheat  ?  Well,  then  no  more  can  I  stop 
the  Road." 

Presley  regained  the  street  stupefied,  his  brain  in  a 
whirl.  This  new  idea,  this  new  conception  dumfounded 
him.  Somehow,  he  could  not  deny  it.  It  rang  with  the 
clear  reverberation  of  truth.  Was  no  one,  then,  to  blame 


A  Story  of  California  577 

for  the  horror  at  the  irrigating  ditch?  Forces,  condi- 
tions, laws  of  supply  and  demand — were  these  then  the 
enemies,  after  all?  Not  enemies;  there  was  no  malevo- 
lence in  Nature.  Colossal  indifference  only,  a  vast  trend 
toward  appointed  goals.  Nature  was,  then,  a  gigantic 
engine,  a  vast  cyclopean  power,  huge,  terrible,  a  leviathan 
with  a  heart  of  steel,  knowing  no  compunction,  no  for- 
giveness, no  tolerance;  crushing  out  the  human  atom 
standing  in  its  way,  with  nirvanic  calm,  the  agony  of  de- 
struction sending  never  a  jar,  never  the  faintest  tremour 
through  all  that  prodigious  mechanism  of  wheels  and 
cogs. 

He  went  to  his  club  and  ate  his  supper  alone,  in  gloomy 
agitation.  He  was  sombre,  brooding,  lost  in  a  dark  maze 
of  gloomy  reflections.  However,  just  as  he  was  rising 
from  the  table  an  incident  occurred  that  for  the  moment 
roused  him  and  sharply  diverted  his  mind. 

His  table  had  been  placed  near  a  window  and  as  he  was 
sipping  his  after-dinner  coffee,  he  happened  to  glance 
across  the  street.  His  eye  was  at  once  caught  by  the  sight 
of  a  familiar  figure.  Was  it  Minna  Hooven?  The  figure 
turned  the  street  corner  and  was  lost  to  sight ;  but  it  had 
been  strangely  like.  On  the  moment,  Presley  had  risen 
from  the  table  and,  clapping  on  his  hat,  had  hurried  into 
the  streets,  where  the  lamps  were  already  beginning  to 
shine. 

But  search  though  he  would,  Presley  could  not  again 
come  upon  the  young  woman,  in  whom  he  fancied  he 
had  seen  the  daughter  of  the  unfortunate  German.  At 
last,  he  gave  up  the  hunt,  and  returning  to  his  club — at 
this  hour  almost  deserted — smoked  a  few  cigarettes, 
vainly  attempted  to  read  from  a  volume  of  essays  in  the 
library,  and  at  last,  nervous,  distraught,  exhausted, 
retired  to  his  bed. 

But  none  the  less,  Preslev  had  not  been  mistaken.  The 


578  The  Octopus 

girl  whom  he  had  tried  to  follow  had  been  indeed  Minna 
Hooven. 

When  Minna,  a  week  before  this  time,  had  returned 
to  the  lodging  house  on  Castro  Street,  after  a  day's  un- 
successful effort  to  find  employment,  and  was  told  that 
her  mother  and  Hilda  had  gone,  she  was  struck  speech- 
less with  surprise  and  dismay.  She  had  never  before 
been  in  any  town  larger  than  Bonneville,  and  now  knew 
not  which  way  to  turn  nor  how  to  account  for  the  dis- 
appearance of  her  mother  and  little  Hilda.  That  the 
landlady  was  on  the  point  of  turning  them  out,  she  un- 
derstood, but  it  had  been  agreed  that  the  family  should 
be  allowed  to  stay  yet  one  more  day,  in  the  hope  that 
Minna  would  find  work.  Of  this  she  reminded  the  land- 
lady. But  this  latter  at  once  launched  upon  her  such  a 
torrent  of  vituperation,  that  the  girl  was  frightened  to 
speechless  submission. 

"Oh,  oh,"  she  faltered,  "I  know.  I  am  sorry.  I 
know  we  owe  you  money,  but  where  did  my  mother  go  ? 
I  only  want  to  find  her." 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  going  to  be  bothered/'  shrilled  the  other. 
"How  do  I  know?" 

The  truth  of  the  matter  was  that  Mrs.  Hooven,  afraid 
to  stay  in  the  vicinity  of  the  house,  after  her  eviction, 
and  threatened  with  arrest  by  the  landlady  if  she  per- 
sisted in  hanging  around,  had  left  with  the  woman  a  note 
scrawled  on  an  old  blotter,  to  be  given  to  Minna  when  she 
returned.  This  the  landlady  had  lost.  To  cover  her  con- 
fusion, she  affected  a  vast  indignation,  and  a  turbulent, 
irascible  demeanour. 

"  I  ain't  going  to  be  bothered  with  such  cattle  as  you," 
she  vociferated  in  Minna's  face.  "  I  don't  know  where 
your  folks  is.  Me,  I  only  have  dealings  with  honest  peo- 
ple. I  ain't  got  a  word  to  say  so  long  as  the  rent  is  paid. 
But  when  I'm  soldiered  out  of  a  week's  lodging,  then 


A  Story  of  California  579 

I'm  done.  You  get  right  along  now.  /  don't  know  you. 
I  ain't  going  to  have  my  place  get  a  bad  name  by  having 
any  South  of  Market  Street  chippies  hanging  around. 
You  get  along,  or  I'll  call  an  officer." 

Minna  sought  the  street,  her  head  in  a  whirl.  It  was 
about  five  o'clock.  In  her  pocket  was  thirty-five  cents, 
all  she  had  in  the  world.  What  now? 

All  at  once,  the  Terror  of  the  City,  that  blind,  unrea- 
soned fear  that  only  the  outcast  knows,  swooped  upon 
her,  and  clutched  her  vulture-wise,  by  the  throat. 

Her  first  few  days'  experience  in  the  matter  of  finding 
employment,  had  taught  her  just  what  she  might  expect 
from  this  new  world  upon  which  she  had  been  thrown. 
What  was  to  become  of  her  ?  What  was  she  to  do,  where 
was  she  to  go  ?  Unanswerable,  grim  questions,  and  now 
she  no  longer  had  herself  to  fear  for.  Her  mother  and 
the  baby,  little  Hilda,  both  of  them  equally  unable  to  look 
after  themselves,  what  was  to  become  of  them,  where 
were  they  gone?  Lost,  lost,  all  of  them,  herself  as  well. 
But  she  rallied  herself,  as  she  walked  along.  The  idea 
of  her  starving,  of  her  mother  and  Hilda  starving,  was 
out  of  all  reason.  Of  course,  it  would  not  come  to  that, 
of  course  not.  It  was  not  thus  that  starvation  came. 
Something  would  happen,  of  course,  it  would — in  time. 
But  meanwhile,  meanwhile,  how  to  get  through  this  ap- 
proaching night,  and  the  next  few  days.  That  was  the 
thing  to  think  of  just  now. 

The  suddenness  of  it  all  was  what  most  unnerved  her. 
During  all  the  nineteen  years  of  her  life,  she  had  never 
known  what  it  meant  to  shift  for  herself.  Her  father 
had  always  sufficed  for  the  family ;  he  had  taken  care  of 
her,  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  her  father  had  been  killed, 
her  mother  snatched  from  her.  Then  all  of  a  sudden 
there  was  no  help  anywhere.  Then  all  of  a  sudden  a 
terrible  voice  demanded  of  her,  "  Now  just  what  can 


580  The  Octopus 

you  do  to  keep  yourself  alive?"  Life  faced  her;  she 
looked  the  huge  stone  image  squarely  in  the  lustreless 
eyes. 

It  was  nearly  twilight.  Minna,  for  the  sake  of  avoid- 
ing observation — for  it  seemed  to  her  that  now  a  thou- 
sand prying  glances  followed  her — assumed  a  matter-of- 
fact  demeanour,  and  began  to  walk  briskly  toward  the 
business  quarter  of  the  town. 

She  was  dressed  neatly  enough,  in  a  blue  cloth  skirt 
with  a  blue  plush  belt,  fairly  decent  shoes,  once  her  moth- 
er *s,  a  pink  shirt  waist,  and  jacket  and  a  straw  sailor.  She 
was,  in  an  unusual  fashion,  pretty.  Even  her  troubles 
had  not  dimmed  the  bright  light  of  her  pale,  greenish- 
blue  eyes,  nor  faded  the  astonishing  redness  of  her  lips, 
nor  hollowed  her  strangely  white  face.  Her  blue-black 
hair  was  trim.  She  carried  her  well-shaped,  well-round- 
ed figure  erectly.  Even  in  her  distress,  she  observed  that 
men  looked  keenly  at  her,  and  sometimes  after  her  as 
she  went  along.  But  this  she  noted  with  a  dim  sub-con- 
scious faculty.  The  real  Minna,  harassed,  terrified, 
lashed  with  a  thousand  anxieties,  kept  murmuring  under 
her  breath: 

"  What  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do,  oh,  what  shall  I 
do,  now  ?  " 

After  an  interminable  walk,  she  gained  Kearney 
Street,  and  held  it  till  the  well-lighted,  well-kept  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  shopping  district  gave  place  to  the  vice- 
crowded  saloons  and  concert  halls  of  the  Barbary  Coast. 
She  turned  aside  in  avoidance  of  this,  only  to  plunge  into 
the  purlieus  of  Chinatown,  whence  only  she  emerged, 
panic-stricken  and  out  of  breath,  after  a  half  hour  of 
never-to-be-forgotten  terrors,  and  at  a  time  when  it  had 
grown  quite  dark. 

On  the  corner  of  California  and  Dupont  streets,  she 
stood  a  long  moment,  pondering. 


A  Story  of  California  581 

"  I  must  do  something/'  she  said  to  herself.  "  I  must 
do  something." 

She  was  tired  out  by  now,  and  the  idea  occurred  to 
her  to  enter  the  Catholic  church  in  whose  shadow  she 
stood,  and  sit  down  and  rest.  This  she  did.  The  even- 
ing service  was  just  being  concluded.  But  long  after 
the  priests  and  altar  boys  had  departed  from  the  chancel, 
Minna  still  sat  in  the  dim,  echoing  interior,  confronting 
her  desperate  situation  as  best  she  might. 

Two  or  three  hours  later,  the  sexton  woke  her.  The 
church  was  being  closed;  she  must  leave.  Once  more, 
chilled  with  the  sharp  night  air,  numb  with  long  sitting 
in  the  same  attitude,  still  oppressed  with  drowsiness,  con- 
fused, frightened,  Minna  found  herself  on  the  pavement. 
She  began  to  be  hungry,  and,  at  length,  yielding  to  the 
demand  that  every  moment  grew  more  imperious,  bought 
and  eagerly  devoured  a  five-cent  bag  of  fruit.  Then, 
once  more  she  took  up  the  round  of  walking. 

At  length,  in  an  obscure  street  that  branched  from 
Kearney  Street,  near  the  corner  of  the  Plaza,  she  came 
upon  an  illuminated  sign,  bearing  the  inscription,  "Beds 
for  the  Night,  15  and  25  cents." 

Fifteen  cents!  Could  she  afford  it?  It  would  leave 
her  with  only  that  much  more,  that  much  between  her- 
self and  a  state  of  privation  of  which  she  dared  not  think ; 
and,  besides,  the  forbidding  look  of  the  building  fright- 
ened her.  It  was  dark,  gloomy,  dirty,  a  place  sugges- 
tive of  obscure  crimes  and  hidden  terrors.  For  twenty 
minutes  or  half  an  hour,  she  hesitated,  walking  twice  and 
three  times  around  the  block.  At  last,  she  made  up  her 
mind.  Exhaustion  such  as  she  had  never  known,  weighed 
like  lead  upon  her  shoulders  and  dragged  at  her  heels. 
She  must  sleep.  She  could  not  walk  the  streets  all 
night.  She  entered  the  door-way  under  the  sign,  and 
found  her  way  up  a  filthy  flight  of  stairs.  At  the  top, 


582  The  Octopus 

a  man  in  a  blue  checked  "  jumper  "  was  filling  a  lamp  be- 
hind a  high  desk.  To  him  Minna  applied. 

"  I  should  like,"  she  faltered,  "  to  have  a  room — a  bed 
for  the  night.  One  of  those  for  fifteen  cents  will  be  good 
enough,  I  think." 

"  Well,  this  place  is  only  for  men,"  said  the  man,  look- 
ing up  from  the  lamp. 

"  Oh,"  said  Minna,  "  oh— I— I  didn't  know." 

She  looked  at  him  stupidly,  and  he,  with  equal  stu- 
pidity, returned  the  gaze.  Thus,  for  a  long  moment,  they 
held  each  other's  eyes. 

"  I — I  didn't  know,"  repeated  Minna. 

"  Yes,  it's  for  men,"  repeated  the  other. 

She  slowly  descended  the  stairs,  and  once  more  came 
out  upon  the  streets. 

And  upon  those  streets  that,  as  the  hours  advanced, 
grew  more  and  more  deserted,  more  and  more  silent, 
more  and  more  oppressive  with  the  sense  of  the  bitter 
hardness  of  life  towards  those  who  have  no  means  of 
living,  Minna  Hooven  spent  the  first  night  of  her  strug- 
gle to  keep  her  head  above  the  ebb-tide  of  the  city's  sea, 
into  which  she  had  been  plunged. 

Morning  came,  and  with  it  renewed  hunger.  At  this 
time,  she  had  found  her  way  uptown  again,  and  towards 
ten  o'clock  was  sitting  upon  a  bench  in  a  little  park  full 
of  nurse-maids  and  children.  A  group  of  the  maids 
drew  their  baby-buggies  to  Minna's  bench,  and  sat 
down,  continuing  a  conversation  they  had  already  be- 
gun. Minna  listened.  A  friend  of  one  of  the  maids  had 
suddenly  thrown  up  her  position,  leaving  her  "  madame  " 
in  what  would  appear  to  have  been  deserved  embarrass- 
ment. 

"  Oh,"  said  Minna,  breaking  in,  and  lying  with  sudden 
unwonted  fluency,  "  I  am  a  nurse-girl.  I  am  out  of  a 
place.  Do  you  think  I  could  get  that  one  ?  " 


A  Story  of  California  583 

The  group  turned  and  fixed  her — so  evidently  a  coun- 
try girl — with  a  supercilious  indifference. 

"  Well,  you  might  try/*  said  one  of  them.  "  Got  good 
references  ?  " 

"References?"  repeated  Minna  blankly.  She  did  not 
know  what  this  meant. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Field  ain't  the  kind  to  stick  about  refer- 
ences," spoke  up  the  other,  "  she's  that  soft.  Why,  any- 
body could  work  her." 

"I'll  go  there,"  said  Minna.  "Have  you  the  ad- 
dress ?  "  It  was  told  to  her. 

"  Lorin,"  she  murmured.    "Is  that  out  of  town?" 

"  Well,  it's  across  the  Bay." 

"Across  the  Bay." 

"Um.    You're  from  the  country,  ain't  you?" 

"  Yes.    How— how  do  I  get  there?    Is  it  far  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  take  the  ferry  at  the  foot  of  Market  Street, 
and  then  the  train  on  the  other  side.  No,  it  ain't  very 
far.  Just  ask  any  one  down  there.  They'll  tell  you." 

It  was  a  chance  ;  but  Minna,  after  walking  down  to  the 
ferry  slips,  found  that  the  round  trip  would  cost  her 
twenty  cents.  If  the  journey  proved  fruitless,  only  a 
dime  would  stand  between  her  and  the  end  of  every- 
thing. But  it  was  a  chance;  the  only  one  that  had,  as 
yet,  presented  itself.  She  made  the  trip. 

And  upon  the  street-railway  cars,  upon  the  ferryboats, 
on  the  locomotives  and  way-coaches  of  the  local  trains, 
she  was  reminded  of  her  father's  death,  and  of  the  giant 
power  that  had  reduced  her  to  her  present  straits,  by  the 
letters,  P.  and  S.  W.  R.  R.  To  her  mind,  they  occurred 
everywhere.  She  seemed  to  see  them  in  every  direction. 
She  fancied  herself  surrounded  upon  every  hand  by  the 
long  arms  of  the  monster. 

Minute  after  minute,  her  hunger  gnawed  at  her.  She 
could  not  keep  her  mind  from  it.  As  she  sat  on  the  boat, 


584  The  Octopus 

she  found  herself  curiously  scanning  the  faces  of  the 
passengers,  wondering  how  long  since  such  a  one  had 
breakfasted,  how  long  before  this  other  should  sit  down 
to  lunch. 

When  Minna  descended  from  the  train,  at  Lorin  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Bay,  she  found  that  the  place  was  one 
of  those  suburban  towns,  .not  yet  become  fashionable, 
such  as  may  be  seen  beyond  the  outskirts  of  any  large 
American  city.  All  along  the  line  of  the  railroad  there- 
abouts, houses,  small  villas — contractors'  ventures — 
were  scattered,  the  advantages  of  suburban  lots  and  sites 
for  homes  being  proclaimed  in  seven-foot  letters  upon 
mammoth  bill-boards  close  to  the  right  of  way. 

Without  much  trouble,  Minna  found  the  house  to  which 
she  had  been  directed,  a  pretty  little  cottage,  set  back 
from  the  street  and  shaded  by  palms,  live  oaks,  and  the  in- 
evitable eucalyptus.  Her  heart  warmed  at  the  sight  of  it. 
Oh,  to  find  a  little  niche  for  herself  here,  a  home,  a  ref- 
uge from  those  horrible  city  streets,  from  the  rat  of  fam- 
ine, with  its  relentless  tooth.  How  she  would  work,  how 
strenuously  she  would  endeavour  tt>  please,  how  patient 
of  rebuke  she  would  be,  how  faithful,  how  conscientious. 
Nor  were  her  pretensions  altogether  false;  upon  her, 
while  at  home,  had  devolved  almost  continually  the  care 
of  the  baby  Hilda,  her  little  sister.  She  knew  the  wants 
and  needs  of  children. 

Her  heart  beating,  her  breath  failing,  she  rang  the  bell 
set  squarely  in  the  middle  of  the  front  door. 

The  lady  of  the  house  herself,  an  elderly  lady,  with 
pleasant,  kindly  face,  opened  the  door.  Minna  stated  her 
errand. 

"  But  I  have  already  engaged  a  girl,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,"  murmured  Minna,  striving  with  all  her  might 
to  maintain  appearances.  "  Oh — I  thought  perhaps — " 
She  turned  away. 


A  Story  of  California  585 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  the  lady.  Then  she  added,  "  Would 
you  care  to  look  after  so  many  as  three  little  children, 
and  help  around  in  light  housework  between  whiles  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Because  my  sister — she  lives  in  North  Berkeley,  above 
here — she's  looking  for  a  girl.  Have  you  had  lots  of  ex- 
perience? Got  good  references?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Well,  I'll  give  you  the  address.  She  lives  up  in  North 
Berkeley." 

She  turned  back  into  the  house  a  moment,  and  re- 
turned, handing  Minna  a  card. 

"  That's  where  she  lives — careful  not  to  blot  it,  child, 
the  ink's  wet  yet — you  had  better  see  her." 

"  Is  it  far?    Could  I  walk  there?  " 

"  My,  no ;  you  better  take  the  electric  cars,  about  six 
blocks  above  here." 

When  Minna  arrived  in  North  Berkeley,  she  had  no 
money  left.  By  a  cruel  mistake,  she  had  taken  a  car  go- 
ing in  the  wrong  direction,  and  though  her  error  was  rec- 
tified easily  enough,  it  had  cost  her  her  last  five-cent  piece. 
She  was  now  to  try  her  last  hope.  Promptly  it  crumbled 
away.  Like  the  former,  this  place  had  been  already  filled, 
and  Minna  left  the  door  of  the  house  with  the  certainty 
that  her  chance  had  come  to  naught,  and  that  now  she  en- 
tered into  the  last  struggle  with  life — the  death  struggle 
— shorn  of  her  last  pitiful  defence,  her  last  safeguard, 
her  last  penny. 

As  she  once  more  resumed  her  interminable  walk,  she 
realised  she  was  weak,  faint ;  and  she  knew  that  it  was 
the  weakness  of  complete  exhaustion,  and  the  faintness 
of  approaching  starvation.  Was  this  the  end  coming 
on?  Terror  of  death  aroused  her. 

"  I  must,  I  must  do  something,  oh,  anything.  I  must 
have  something  to  eat." 


586  The  Octopus 

At  this  late  hour,  the  idea  of  pawning  her  little  jacket 
occurred  to  her,  but  now  she  was  far  away  from  the  city 
and  its  pawnshops,  and  there  was  no  getting  back. 

She  walked  on.  An  hour  passed.  She  lost  her  sense 
of  direction,  became  confused,  knew  not  where  she  was 
going,  turned  corners  and  went  up  by-streets  without 
knowing  why,  anything  to  keep  moving,  for  she  fancied 
that  so  soon  as  she  stood  still,  the  rat  in  the  pit  of  her 
stomach  gnawed  more  eagerly. 

At  last,  she  entered  what  seemed  to  be,  if  not  a  park, 
at  least  some  sort  of  public  enclosure.  There  were  many 
trees ;  the  place  was  beautiful ;  well-kept  roads  and  walks 
led  sinuously  and  invitingly  underneath  the  shade. 
Through  the  trees  upon  the  other  side  of  a  wide  expanse 
of  turf,  brown  and  sear  under  the  summer  sun,  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  tall  buildings  and  a  flagstaff.  The  whole 
place  had  a  vaguely  public,  educational  appearance,  and 
Minna  guessed,  from  certain  notices  affixed  to  the  trees, 
warning  the  public  against  the  picking  of  flowers,  that 
she  had  found  her  way  into  the  grounds  of  the  State  Uni- 
versity. She  went  on  a  little  further.  The  path  she  was 
following  led  her,  at  length,  into  a  grove  of  gigantic  live 
oaks,  whose  lower  branches  all  but  swept  the  ground. 
Here  the  grass  was  green,  the  few  flowers  in  bloom,  the 
shade  very  thick.  A  more  lovely  spot  she  had  seldom 
seen.  Near  at  hand  was  a  bench,  built  around  the  trunk 
of  the  largest  live  oak,  and  here,  at  length,  weak  from 
hunger,  exhausted  to  the  limits  of  her  endurance,  despair- 
ing, abandoned,  Minna  Hooven  sat  down  to  enquire  of 
herself  what  next  she  could  do. 

But  once  seated,  the  demands  of  the  animal — so  she 
could  believe — became  more  clamorous,  more  insistent. 
To  eat,  to  rest,  to  be  safely  housed  against  another  night, 
above  all  else,  these  were  the  things  she  craved ;  and  the 
craving  within  her  grew  so  mighty  that  she  crisped  her 


A  Story  of  California  587 

poor,  starved  hands  into  little  fists,  in  an  agony  of  desire, 
while  the  tears  ran  from  her  eyes,  and  the  sobs  rose  thick 
from  her  breast  and  struggled  and  strangled  in  her  aching 
throat. 

But  in  a  few  moments  Minna  was  aware  that  a  woman, 
apparently  of  some  thirty  years  of  age,  had  twice  passed 
along  the  walk  in  front  of  the  bench  where  she  sat,  and 
now,  as  she  took  more  notice  of  her,  she  remembered 
that  she  had  seen  her  on  the  ferry-boat  coming  over 
from  the  city. 

The  woman  was  gowned  in  silk,  tightly  corseted,  and 
wore  a  hat  of  rather  ostentatious  smartness.  Minna  be- 
came convinced  that  the  person  was  watching  her,  but 
before  she  had  a  chance  to  act  upon  this  conviction  she 
was  surprised  out  of  all  countenance  by  the  stranger 
coming  up  to  where  she  sat  and  speaking  to  her. 

"  Here  is  a  coincidence,"  exclaimed  the  new-comer,  as 
she  sat  down ;  "  surely  you  are  the  young  girl  who  sat 
opposite  me  on  the  boat.  Strange  I  should  come  across 
you  again.  I've  had  you  in  mind  ever  since." 

On  this  nearer  view  Minna  observed  that  the  woman's 
face  bore  rather  more  than  a  trace  of  enamel  and  that  the 
atmosphere  about  was  impregnated  with  sachet.  She  was 
not  otherwise  conspicuous,  but  there  was  a  certain  hard- 
ness about  her  mouth  and  a  certain  droop  of  fatigue  in 
her  eyelids  which,  combined  with  an  indefinite  self-con- 
fidence of  manner,  held  Minna's  attention. 

"  Do  you  know,"  continued  the  woman,  "  I  believe  you 
are  in  trouble.  I  thought  so  when  I  saw  you  on  the  boat, 
and  I  think  so  now.  Are  you?  Are  you  in  trouble? 
You're  from  the  country,  ain't  you  ?  " 

Minna,  glad  to  find  a  sympathiser,  even  in  this 
chance  acquaintance,  admitted  that  she  was  in  distress ; 
that  she  had  become  separated  from  her  mother,  and  that 
she  was  indeed  from  the  country. 


588  The  Octopus 

"  I've  been  trying  to  find  a  situation,"  she  hazarded  in 
conclusion,  "  but  I  don't  seem  to  succeed.  I've  never  been 
in  a  city  before,  except  Bonneville." 

"  Well,  it  is  a  coincidence/'  said  the  other.  "  I  know  I 
wasn't  drawn  to  you  for  nothing.  I  am  looking  for  just 
such  a  young  girl  as  you.  You  see,  I  live  alone  a  good 
deal  and  I've  been  wanting  to  find  a  nice,  bright,  socia- 
ble girl  who  will  be  a  sort  of  companion  to  me.  Under- 
stand? And  there's  something  about  you  that  I  like.  I 
took  to  you  the  moment  I  saw  you  on  the  boat.  Now 
shall  we  talk  this  over  ?  " 

Towards  the  end  of  the  week,  one  afternoon,  as  Presley 
was  returning  from  his  club,  he  came  suddenly  face  to 
face  with  Minna  upon  a  street  corner. 

"Ah,"  he  cried,  coming  toward  her  joyfully.  "Upon 
my  word,  I  had  almost  given  you  up.  I've  been  looking 
everywhere  for  you.  I  was  afraid  you  might  not  be  get- 
ting along,  and  I  wanted  to  see  if  there  was  anything  I 
could  do.  How  are  your  mother  and  Hilda?  Where 
are  you  stopping  ?  Have  you  got  a  good  place  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  where  mamma  is,"  answered  Minna. 
"  We  got  separated,  and  I  never  have  been  able  to  find 
her  again." 

Meanwhile,  Presley  had  been  taking  in  with  a  quick  eye 
the  details  of  Minna's  silk  dress,  with  its  garniture  of  lace, 
its  edging  of  velvet,  its  silver  belt-buckle.  Her  hair  was 
arranged  in  a  new  way  and  on  her  head  was  a  wide  hat 
with  a  flare  to  one  side,  set  off  with  a  gilt  buckle  and  a 
puff  of  bright  blue  plush.  He  glanced  at  her  sharply. 

"Well,  but — but  how  are  you  getting  on?"  he  de- 
manded. 

Minna  laughed  scornfully. 

"I?"  she  cried.  "Oh,  I've  gone  to  hell.  It  was 
either  that  or  starvation." 

Presley  regained  his  room  at  the  club,  white  and  trem- 


A  Story  of  California  589 

bling.  Worse  than  the  worst  he  had  feared  had  hap- 
pened. He  had  not  been  soon  enough  to  help.  He  had 
failed  again.  A  superstitious  fear  assailed  him  that  he 
was,  in  a  manner,  marked;  that  he  was  foredoomed  to 
fail.  Minna  had  come — had  been  driven  to  this ;  and  he, 
acting  too  late  upon  his  tardy  resolve,  had  not  been  able 
to  prevent  it.  Were  the  horrors,  then,  never  to  end? 
Was  the  grisly  spectre  of  consequence  to  forever  dance 
in  his  vision?  Were  the  results,  the  far-reaching  re- 
sults of  that  battle  at  the  irrigating  ditch  to  cross  his  path 
forever  ?  When  would"  the  affair  be  terminated,  the  inci- 
dent closed?  Where  was  that  spot  to  which  the  tentacle 
of  the  monster  could  not  reach  ? 

By  now,  he  was  sick  with  the  dread  of  it  all.  He  want- 
ed to  get  away,  to  be  free  from  that  endless  misery,  so 
that  he  might  not  see  what  he  could  no  longer  help. 
Cowardly  he  now  knew  himself  to  be.  He  thought  of 
himself  only  with  loathing. 

Bitterly  self -contemptuous  that  he  could  bring  himself 
to  a  participation  in  such  trivialities,  he  began  to  dress  to 
keep  his  engagement  to  dine  with  the  Cedarquists. 

He  arrived  at  the  house  nearly  half  an  hour  late,  but 
before  he  could  take  off  his  overcoat,  Mrs.  Cedarquist 
appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the  drawing-room  at  the  end 
of  the  hall.  She  was  dressed  as  if  to  go  out. 

"  My  dear  Presley,"  she  exclaimed,  her  stout,  over- 
dressed body  bustling  toward  him  with  a  great  rustle  of 
silk.  "  I  never  was  so  glad.  You  poor,  dear  poet,  you 
are  thin  as  a  ghost.  You  need  a  better  dinner  than  I  can 
give  you,  and  that  is  just  what  you  are  to  have." 

"  Have  I  blundered  ? "  Presley  hastened  to  exclaim. 
"Did  not  Mr.  Cedarquist  mention  Friday  evening?" 

"  No,  no,  no,"  she  cried ;  "  it  was  he  who  blundered. 
You  blundering  in  a  social  amenity !  Preposterous !  No ; 
Mr.  Cedarquist  forgot  that  we  were  dining  out  ourselves 


59°  The  Octopus 

to-night,  and  when  he  told  me  he  had  asked  you  here  for 
the  same  evening,  I  fell  upon  the  man,  my  dear,  I  did 
actually,  tooth  and  nail.  But  I  wouldn't  hear  of  his  wir- 
ing you.  I  just  dropped  a  note  to  our  hostess,  asking  if 
I  could  not  bring  you,  and  when  I  told  her  who  you  were, 
she  received  the  idea  with,  oh,  empressement.  So,  there 
it  is,  all  settled.  Cedarquist  and  the  girls  are  gone  on 
ahead,  and  you  are  to  take  the  old  lady  like  a  dear,  dear 
poet.  I  believe  I  hear  the  carnage.  Allans!  En  voi- 
ture!" 

Once  settled  in  the  cool  gloom  of  the  coupe,  odorous 
of  leather  and  upholstery,  Mrs.  Cedarquist  exclaimed : 

"  And  I've  never  told  you  who  you  were  to  dine  with ; 
oh,  a  personage,  really.  Fancy,  you  will  be  in  the  camp 
of  your  dearest  foes.  You  are  to  dine  with  the  Gerard 
people,  one  of  the  Vice-Presidents  of  your  bete  noir,  the 
P.  and  S.  W.  Railroad." 

Presley  started,  his  fists  clenching  so  abruptly  as  to  all 
but  split  his  white  gloves.  He  was  not  conscious  of  what 
he  said  in  reply,  and  Mrs.  Cedarquist  was  so  taken  up 
with  her  own  endless  stream  of  talk  that  she  did  not  ob- 
serve his  confusion. 

"  Their  daughter  Honora  is  going  to  Europe  next 
week;  her  mother  is  to  take  her,  and  Mrs.  Gerard  is  to 
have  just  a  few  people  to  dinner — very  informal,  you 
know — ourselves,  you  and,  oh,  I  don't  know,  two  or  three 
others.  Have  you  ever  seen  Honora?  The  prettiest  lit- 
tle thing,  and  will  she  be  rich?  Millions,  I  would  not 
dare  say  how  many.  Tiens.  Nous  void." 

The  coupe  drew  up  to  the  curb,  and  Presley  followed 
Mrs.  Cedarquist  up  the  steps  to  the  massive  doors  of  the 
great  house.  In  a  confused  daze,  he  allowed  one  of  the 
footmen  to  relieve  him  of  his  hat  and  coat ;  in  a  daze  he 
rejoined  Mrs.  Cedarquist  in  a  room  with  a  glass  roof, 
hung  with  pictures,  the  art  gallery,  no  doubt,  and  in  a 


A  Story  of  California  591 

daze  heard  their  names  announced  at  the  entrance  of  an- 
other room,  the  doors  of  which  were  hung  with  thick, 
blue  curtains. 

He  entered,  collecting  his  wits  for  the  introductions 
and  presentations  that  he  foresaw  impended. 

The  room  was  very  large,  and  of  excessive  loftiness. 
Flat,  rectagonal  pillars  of  a  rose-tinted,  variegated  marble, 
rose  from  the  floor  almost  flush  with  the  walls,  finishing 
off  at  the  top  with  gilded  capitals  of  a  Corinthian  design, 
which  supported  the  ceiling.  The  ceiling  itself,  instead 
of  joining  the  walls  at  right  angles,  curved  to  meet  them, 
a  device  that  produced  a  sort  of  dome-like  effect.  This 
ceiling  was  a  maze  of  golden  involutions  in  very  high  re- 
lief, that  adjusted  themselves  to  form  a  massive  framing 
for  a  great  picture,  nymphs  and  goddesses,  white  doves, 
golden  chariots  and  the  like,  all  wreathed  about  with 
clouds  and  garlands  of  roses.  Between  the  pillars  around 
the  sides  of  the  room  were  hangings  of  silk,  the  design — 
of  a  Louis  Quinze  type — of  beautiful  simplicity  and  fault- 
less taste.  The  fireplace  was  a  marvel.  It  reached  from 
floor  to  ceiling ;  the  lower  parts,  black  marble,  carved  in- 
to crouching  Atlases,  with  great  muscles  that  upbore 
the  superstructure.  The  design  of  this  latter,  of  a  kind 
of  purple  marble,  shot  through  with  white  veinings,  was 
in  the  same  style  as  the  design  of  the  silk  hangings.  In 
its  midst  was  a  bronze  escutcheon,  bearing  an  undeci- 
pherable monogram  and  a  Latin  motto.  Andirons  of 
brass,  nearly  six  feet  high,  flanked  the  hearthstone. 

The  windows  of  the  room  were  heavily  draped  in  som- 
bre brocade  and  ecru  lace,  in  which  the  initials  of  the 
family  were  very  beautifully  worked.  But  directly  oppo- 
site the  fireplace,  an  extra  window,  lighted  from  the  ad- 
joining conservatory,  threw  a  wonderful,  rich  light  into 
the  apartment.  It  was  a  Gothic  window  of  stained  glass, 
very  large,  the  centre  figures  being  armed  warriors,  Par- 


592  The  Octopus 

sifal  and  Lohengrin ;  the  one  with  a  banner,  the  other  with 
a  swan.  The  effect  was  exquisite,  the  window  a  verita- 
ble masterpiece,  glowing,  flaming,  and  burning  with  a 
hundred  tints  and  colours — opalescent,  purple,  wine- 
red,  clouded  pinks,  royal  blues,  saffrons,  violets  so  dark 
as  to  be  almost  black. 

Under  foot,  the  carpet  had  all  the  softness  of  texture  of 
grass;  skins  (one  of  them  of  an  enormous  polar  bear) 
and  rugs  of  silk  velvet  were  spread  upon  the  floor.  A 
Renaissance  cabinet  of  ebony,  many  feet  taller  than  Pres- 
ley's head,  and  inlaid  with  ivory  and  silver,  occupied  one 
corner  of  the  room,  while  in  its  centre  stood  a  vast  table 
of  Flemish  oak,  black,  heavy  as  iron,  massive.  A  faint 
odour  of  sandalwood  pervaded  the  air.  From  the  con- 
servatory near-by,  came  the  splashing  of  a  fountain.  A 
row  of  electric  bulbs  let  into  the  frieze  of  the  walls  be- 
tween the  golden  capitals,  and  burning  dimly  behind  hem- 
ispheres of  clouded  glass,  threw  a  subdued  light  over  the 
whole  scene. 

Mrs.  Gerard  came  forward. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Presley,  of  course,  our  new  poet  of  whom 
we  are  all  sp  proud.  I  was  so  afraid  you  would  be  una- 
ble to  come.  You  have  given  me  a  real  pleasure  in  allow- 
ing me  to  welcome  you  here." 

The  footman  appeared  at  her  elbow. 

"  Dinner  is  served,  madame,"  he  announced. 

When  Mrs.  Hooven  had  left  the  boarding-house  on 
Castro  Street,  she  had  taken  up  a  position  on  a  neigh- 
bouring corner,  to  wait  for  Minna's  reappearance.  Lit- 
tle Hilda,  at  this  time  hardly  more  than  six  years  of  age, 
was  with  her,  holding  to  her  hand. 

Mrs.  Hooven  was  by  no  means  an  old  woman,  but 
hard  work  had  aged  her.  She  no  longer  had  any  claim 
to  good  looks.  She  no  longer  took  much  interest  in  her 


A  Story  of  California  593 

personal  appearance.  At  the  time  of  her  eviction  from 
the  Castro  Street  boarding-house,  she  wore  a  faded  black 
bcnnet,  garnished  with  faded  artificial  flowers  of  dirty 
pink.  A  plaid  shawl  was  about  her  shoulders.  But  this  day 
of  misfortune  had  set  Mrs.  Hooven  adrift  in  even  worse 
condition  than  her  daughter.  Her  purse,  containing  a 
miserable  handful  of  dimes  and  nickels,  was  in  her  trunk, 
and  her  trunk  was  in  the  hands  of  the  landlady.  Minna 
had  been  allowed  such  reprieve  as  her  thirty-five  cents 
would  purchase.  The  destitution  of  Mrs.  Hooven  and 
her  little  girl  had  begun  from  the  very  moment  of  her 
eviction. 

While  she  waited  for  Minna,  watching  every  street  car 
and  every  approaching  pedestrian,  a  policeman  appeared, 
asked  what  she  did,  and,  receiving  no  satisfactory  reply, 
promptly  moved  her  on. 

Minna  had  had  little  assurance  in  facing  the  life  strug- 
gle of  the  city.  Mrs.  Hooven  had  absolutely  none.  In 
her,  grief,  distress,  the  pinch  of  poverty,  and,  above  all,  the 
nameless  fear  of  the  turbulent,  fierce  life  of  the  streets, 
had  produced  a  numbness,  an  embruted,  sodden,  silent, 
speechless  condition  of  dazed  mind,  and  clogged,  unin- 
telligent speech.  She  was  dumb,  bewildered,  stupid,  ani- 
mated but  by  a  single  impulse.  She  clung  to  life,  and 
to  the  life  of  her  little  daughter  Hilda,  with  the  blind 
tenacity  of  purpose  of  a  drowning  cat. 

Thus,  when  ordered  to  move  on  by  the  officer,  she  had 
silently  obeyed,  not  even  attempting  to  explain  her  situa- 
tion. She  walked  away  to  the  next  street-crossing. 
Then,  in  a  few  moments  returned,  taking  up  her  place 
on  the  corner  near  the  boarding-house,  spying  upon  the 
approaching  cable  cars,  peeping  anxiously  down  the 
length  of  the  sidewalks. 

Once  more,  the  officer  ordered  her  away,  and  once 
more,  unprotesting,  she  complied.  But  when  for  the 
18 


594  The  Octopus 

third  time  the  policeman  found  her  on  the  forbidden  spot, 
he  had  lost  his  temper.  This  time  when  Mrs.  Hooven 
departed,  he  had  followed  her,  and  when,  bewildered, 
persistent,  she  had  attempted  to  turn  back,  he  caught 
her  by  the  shoulder. 

"  Do  you  want  to  get  arrested,  hey  ? "  he  demanded. 
"  Do  you  want  me  to  lock  you  up  ?  Say,  do  you,  speak 
up?" 

The  ominous  words  at  length  reached  Mrs.  Hooven's 
comprehension.  Arrested !  She  was  to  be  arrested.  The 
countrywoman's  fear  of  the  Jail  nipped  and  bit  eagerly 
at  her  unwilling  heels.  She  hurried  off,  thinking  to  re- 
turn to  her  post  after  the  policeman  should  have  gone 
away.  But  when,  at  length,  turning  back,  she  tried  to 
find  the  boarding-house,  she  suddenly  discovered  that  she 
was  on  an  unfamiliar  street.  Unwittingly,  no  doubt,  she 
had  turned  a  corner.  She  could  not  retrace  her  steps. 
She  and  Hilda  were  lost. 

"  Mammy,  I'm  tired,"  Hilda  complained. 

Her  mother  picked  her  up. 

"Mammy,  where're  we  gowun,  mammy?" 

Where,  indeed?  Stupefied,  Mrs.  Hooven  looked  about 
her  at  the  endless  blocks  of  buildings,  the  endless  proces- 
sion of  vehicles  in  the  streets,  the  endless  march  of  pe- 
destrians on  the  sidewalks.  Where  was  Minna;  where 
was  she  and  her  baby  to  sleep  that  night?  How  was 
Hilda  to  be  fed? 

She  could  not  stand  still.  There  was  no  place  to  sit 
down ;  but  one  thing  was  left,  walk. 

Ah,  that  via  dolorosa  of  the  destitute,  that  chemin  de 
la  croix  of  the  homeless.  Ah,  the  mile  after  mile  of 
granite  pavement  that  must  be,  must  be  traversed.  Walk 
they  must.  Move,  they  must ;  onward,  forward,  whither 
they  cannot  tell;  why,  they  do  not  know.  Walk,  walk, 
walk  with  bleeding  feet  and  smarting  joints;  walk  with 


A  Story  of  California  595 

aching  back  and  trembling  knees;  walk,  though  the 
senses  grow  giddy  with  fatigue,  though  the  eyes  droop 
with  sleep,  though  every  nerve,  demanding  rest,  sets  in 
motion  its  tiny  alarm  of  pain.  Death  is  at  the  end  of 
that  devious,  winding  maze  of  paths,  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  and  crossed  again.  There  is  but  one  goal  to  the 
via  dolorosa;  there  is  no  escape  from  the  central  chamber 
of  that  labyrinth.  Fate  guides  the  feet  of  them  that  are 
set  therein.  Double  on  their  steps  though  they  may, 
weave  in  and  out  of  the  myriad  corners  of  the  city's 
streets,  return,  go  forward,  back,  from  side  to  side,  here, 
there,  anywhere,  dodge,  twist,  wind,  the  central  chamber 
where  Death  sits  is  reached  inexorably  at  the  end. 

Sometimes  leading  and  sometimes  carrying  Hilda, 
Mrs.  Hooven  set  off  upon  her  objectless  journey.  Block 
after  block  she  walked,  street  after  street.  She  was 
afraid  to  stop,  because  of  the  policemen.  As  often  as 
she  so  much  as  slackened  her  pace,  she  was  sure  to  see 
one  of  these  terrible  figures  in  the  distance,  watching  her, 
so  it  seemed  to  her,  waiting  for  her  to  halt  for  the  frac- 
tion of  a  second,  in  order  that  he  might  have  an  excuse 
to  arrest  her. 

Hilda  fretted  incessantly. 

"  Mammy,  where're  we  gowun  ?  Mammy,  I'm  tired." 
Then,  at  last,  for  the  first  time,  that  plaint  that  stabbed 
the  mother's  heart: 

"  Mammy,  I'm  hungry." 

"  Be  qui-ut,  den,"  said  Mrs.  Hooven.  "  Bretty  soon 
we'll  hev  der  subber." 

Passers-by  on  the  sidewalk,  men  and  women  in  the 
great  six  o'clock  homeward  march,  jostled  them  as  they 
went  along.  With  dumb,  dull  curiousness,  she  looked 
into  one  after  another  of  the  limitless  stream  of  faces, 
and  she  fancied  she  saw  in  them  every  emotion  but  pity. 
The  faces  were  gay,  were  anxious,  were  sorrowful,  were 


596  The  Octopus 

mirthful,  were  lined  with  thought,  or  were  merely  flat 
and  expressionless,  but  not  one  was  turned  toward  her 
in  compassion.  The  expressions  of  the  faces  might  be 
various,  but  an  underlying  callousness  was  discoverable 
beneath  every  mask.  The  people  seemed  removed  from 
her  immeasurably ;  they  were  infinitely  above  her.  What 
was  she  to  them,  she  and  her  baby,  the  crippled  outcasts 
of  the  human  herd,  the  unfit,  not  able  to  survive,  thrust 
out  on  the  heath  to  perish? 

To  beg  from  these  people  did  not  yet  occur  to  her. 
There  was  no  pride,  however,  in  the  matter.  She  would 
have  as  readily  asked  alms  of  so  many  sphinxes. 

She  went  on.  Without  willing  it,  her  feet  carried  her 
in  a  wide  circle.  Soon  she  began  to  recognise  the  houses  ; 
she  had  been  in  that  street  before.  Somehow,  this  was 
distasteful  to  her;  so,  striking  off  at  right  angles,  she 
walked  straight  before  her  for  over  a  dozen  blocks.  By 
now,  it  was  growing  darker.  The  sun  had  set.  The 
hands  of  a  clock  on  the  power-house  of  a  cable  line 
pointed  to  seven.  No  doubt,  Minna  had  come  long  before 
this  time,  had  found  her  mother  gone,  and  had — just 
what  had  she  done,  just  what  could  she  do?  Where  was 
her  daughter  now?  Walking  the  streets  herself,  no 
doubt.  What  was  to  become  of  Minna,  pretty  girl  that 
she  was,  lost,  houseless  and  friendless  in  the  maze  of 
these  streets?  Mrs.  Hooven,  roused  from  her  lethargy, 
could  not  repress  an  exclamation  of  anguish.  Here  was 
misfortune  indeed ;  here  was  calamity.  She  bestirred  her- 
self, and  remembered  the  address  of  the  boarding-house. 
She  might  inquire  her  way  back  thither.  No  doubt,  by 
now  the  policeman  would  be  gone  home  for  the  night. 
She  looked  about.  She  was  in  the  district  of  modest 
residences,  and  a  young  man  was  coming  toward  her, 
carrying  a  new  garden  hose  looped  around  his  shoulder. 

"Say,  Meest'r;  say,  blease " 


A  Story  of  California  597 

The  young  man  gave  her  a  quick  look  and  passed  on, 
hitching  the  coil  of  hose  over  his  shoulder.  But  a  few 
paces  distant,  he  slackened  in  his  walk  and  fumbled  in 
his  vest  pocket  with  his  fingers.  Then  he  came  back  to 
Mrs.  Hooven  and  put  a  quarter  into  her  hand. 

Mrs.  Hooven  stared  at  the  coin  stupefied.  The  young 
man  disappeared.  He  thought,  then,  that  she  was  beg- 
ging. It  had  come  to  that ;  she,  independent  all  her  life, 
whose  husband  had  held  five  hundred  acres  of  wheat 
land,  had  been  taken  for  a  beggar.  A  flush  of  shame 
shot  to  her  face.  She  was  about  to  throw  the  money 
after  its  giver.  But  at  the  moment,  Hilda  again  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Mammy,  I'm  hungry." 

With  a  movement  of  infinite  lassitude  and  resigned 
acceptance  of  the  situation,  Mrs.  Hooven  put  the  coin  in 
her  pocket.  She  had  no  right  to  be  proud  any  longer. 
Hilda  must  have  food. 

That  evening,  she  and  her  child  had  supper  at  a  cheap 
restaurant  in  a  poor  quarter  of  the  town,  and  passed  the 
night  on  the  benches  of  a  little  uptown  park. 

Unused  to  the  ways  of  the  town,  ignorant  as  to  the 
customs  and  possibilities  of  eating-houses,  she  spent  the 
whole  of  her  quarter  upon  supper  for  herself  and  Hilda, 
and  had  nothing  left  wherewith  to  buy  a  lodging. 

The  night  was  dreadful ;  Hilda  sobbed  herself  to  sleep 
on  her  mother's  shoulder,  waking  thereafter  from  hour  to 
hour,  to  protest,  though  wrapped  in  her  mother's  shawl, 
that  she  was  cold,  and  to  enquire  why  they  did  not  go 
to  bed.  Drunken  men  snored  and  sprawled  near  at 
hand.  Towards  morning,  a  loafer,  reeking  of  alcohol, 
sat  down  beside  her,  and  indulged  in  an  incoherent 
soliloquy,  punctuated  with  oaths  and  obscenities.  It  was 
not  till  far  along  towards  daylight  that  she  fell  asleep. 

She  awoke  to  find  it  broad  day.     Hilda — mercifully— 


598  The  Octopus 

slept.  Her  mother's  limbs  were  stiff  and  lame  with  cold 
and  damp;  her  head  throbbed.  She  moved  to  another 
bench  which  stood  in  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and  for  a  long 
two  hours  sat  there  in  the  thin  warmth,  till  the  moisture 
of  the  night  that  clung  to  her  clothes  was  evaporated. 

A  policeman  came  into  view.  She  woke  Hilda,  and 
carrying  her  in  her  arms,  took  herself  away. 

"  Mammy,"  began  Hilda  as  soon  as  she  was  well 
awake ;  "  Mammy,  I'm  hungry.  I  want  mein  breakfest." 

"  Sure,  sure,  soon  now,,  leedle  tochter." 

She  herself  was  hungry,  but  she  had  but  little  thought 
of  that.  How  was  Hilda  to  be  fed?  She  remembered 
her  experience  of  the  previous  day,  when  the  young 
man  with  the  hose  had  given  her  money.  Was  it  so 
easy,  then,  to  beg  ?  Could  charity  be  had  for  the  asking  ? 
So  it  seemed;  but  all  that  was  left  of  her  sturdy  inde- 
pendence revolted  at  the  thought.  She  beg!  She  hold 
out  the  hand  to  strangers! 

"  Mammy,  I'm  hungry." 

There  was  no  other  way.  It  must  come  to  that  in  the 
end.  Why  temporise,  why  put  off  the  inevitable?  She 
sought  out  a  frequented  street  where  men  and  women 
were  on  their  way  to  work.  One  after  another,  she  let 
them  go  by,  searching  their  faces,  deterred  at  the  very 
last  moment  by  some  trifling  variation  of  expression,  a 
firm  set  mouth,  a  serious,  level  eyebrow,  an  advancing 
chin.  Then,  twice,  when  she  had  made  a  choice,  and 
brought  her  resolution  to  the  point  of  speech,  she 
quailed,  shrinking,  her  ears  tingling,  her  whole  being 
protesting  against  the  degradation.  Every  one  must  be 
looking  at  her.  Her  shame  was  no  doubt  the  object  of 
an  hundred  eyes. 

"  Mammy,  I'm  hungry,"  protested  Hilda  again. 

She  made  up  her  mind.  What,  though,  was  she  to 
say?  In  what  words  did  beggars  ask  for  assistance? 


A  Story  of  California  599 

She  tried  to  remember  how  tramps  who  had  appeared 
at  her  back  door  on  Los  Muertos  had  addressed  her ;  how 
and  with  what  formula  certain  mendicants  of  Bonneville 
had  appealed  to  her.  Then,  having  settled  upon  a 
phrase,  she  approached  a  whiskered  gentleman  with  a 
large  stomach,  walking  briskly  in  the  direction  of  the  town. 

"  Say,  den,  blease  hellup  a  boor  womun." 

The  gentleman  passed  on. 

"  Perhaps  he  doand  hear  me,"  she  murmured. 

Two  well-dressed  women  advanced,  chattering  gayly. 

"  Say,  say,  den,  blease  hellup  a  boor  womun." 

One  of  the  women  paused,  murmuring  to  her  compan- 
ion, and  from  her  purse  extracted  a  yellow  ticket  which  she 
gave  to  Mrs.  Hooven  with  voluble  explanations.  But 
Mrs.Hooven  was  confused,  she  did  not  understand.  What 
could  the  ticket  mean  ?  The  women  went  on  their  way. 

The  next  person  to  whom  she  applied  was  a  young 
girl  of  about  eighteen,  very  prettily  dressed. 

"  Say,  say,  den,  blease  hellup  a  boor  womun." 

In  evident  embarrassment,  the  young  girl  paused  and 
searched  in  her  little  pocketbook. 

"  I  think  I  have — I  think — I  have  just  ten  cents  here 
somewhere,"  she  murmured  again  and  again. 

In  the  end,  she  found  a  dime,  and  dropped  it  into  Mrs. 
Hooven's  palm. 

That  was  the  beginning.  The  first  step  once  taken,  the 
others  became  easy.  All  day  long,  Mrs.  Hooven  and 
Hilda  followed  the  streets,  begging,  begging.  Here  it 
was  a  nickel,  there  a  dime,  here  a  nickel  again.  But  she 
was  not  expert  in  the  art,  nor  did  she  know  where  to  buy 
food  the  cheapest ;  and  the  entire  day's  work  resulted  only 
in  barely  enough  for  two  meals  of  bread,  milk,  and  a 
wretchedly  cooked  stew.  Tuesday  night  found  the  pair 
once  more  shelterless. 

Once  more,  Mrs.  Hooven  and  her  baby  passed  the 


6oo  The  Octopus 

night  on  the  park  benches.  But  early  on  Wednesday 
morning,  Mrs.  Hooven  found  herself  assailed  by  sharp 
pains  and  cramps  in  her  stomach.  What  was  the  cause 
she  could  not  say ;  but  as  the  day  went  on,  the  pains  in- 
creased, alternating  with  hot  flushes  over  all  her  body, 
and  a  certain  weakness  and  faintness.  As  the  day  went 
on,  the  pain  and  the  weakness  increased.  When  she  tried 
to  walk,  she  found  she  could  do  so  only  with  the  greatest 
difficulty.  Here  was  fresh  misfortune.  To  beg,  she 
must  walk.  Dragging  herself  forward  a  half-block  at  a 
time,  she  regained  the  street  once  more.  She  succeeded 
in  begging  a  couple  of  nickels,  bought  a  bag  of  apples 
from  a  vender,  and,  returning  to  the  park,  sank  ex- 
hausted upon  a  bench. 

Here  she  remained  all  day  until  evening,  Hilda  alter- 
nately whimpering  for  her  bread  and  milk,  or  playing  lan- 
guidly in  the  gravel  walk  at  her  feet.  In  the  evening, 
she  started  out  again.  This  time,  it  was  bitter  hard. 
Nobody  seemed  inclined  to  give.  Twice  she  was  "  moved 
on  "  by  policemen.  Two  hours'  begging  elicited  but  a 
single  dime.  With  this,  she  bought  Hilda's  bread  and 
milk,  and  refusing  herself  to  eat,  returned  to  the  bench — 
the  only  home  she  knew — and  spent  the  night  shivering 
with  cold,  burning  with  fever. 

From  Wednesday  morning  till  Friday  evening,  with 
the  exception  of  the  few  apples  she  had  bought,  and  a 
quarter  of  a  loaf  of  hard  bread  that  she  found  in  a 
greasy  newspaper — scraps  of  a  workman's  dinner — Mrs. 
Hooven  had  nothing  to  eat.  In  her  weakened  condition, 
begging  became  hourly  more  difficult,  and  such  little 
money  as  was  given  her,  she  resolutely  spent  on  Hilda's 
bread  and  milk  in  the  morning  and  evening. 

By  Friday  afternoon,  she  was  very  weak,  indeed.  Her 
eyes  troubled  her.  She  could  no  longer  see  distinctly, 
and  at  times  there  appeared  to  her  curious  figures,  huge 


A  Story  of  California  60 1 

crystal  goblets  of  the  most  graceful  shapes,  floating  and 
swaying  in  the  air  in  front  of  her;  almost  within  arm's 
reach.  Vases  of  elegant  forms,  made  of  shimmering 
glass,  bowed  and  courtesied  toward  her.  Glass  bulbs 
took  graceful  and  varying  shapes  before  her  vision,  now 
rounding  into  globes,  now  evolving  into  hour-glasses, 
now  twisting  into  pretzel-shaped  convolutions. 

"  Mammy,  I'm  hungry,"  insisted  Hilda,  passing  her 
hands  over  her  face.  Mrs.  Hooven  started  and  woke. 
It  was  Friday  evening.  Already  the  street  lamps  were 
being  lit. 

"  Gome,  den,  leedle  girl/'  she  said,  rising  and  taking 
Hilda's  hand.  "  Gome,  den,  we  go  vind  subber,  hey  ?  " 

She  issued  from  the  park  and  took  a  cross  street,  di- 
rectly away  from  the  locality  where  she  had  begged  the 
previous  days.  She  had  had  no  success  there  of  late. 
She  would  try  some  other  quarter  of  the  town.  After  a 
weary  walk,  she  came  out  upon  Van  Ness  Avenue,  near 
its  junction  with  Market  Street.  She  turned  into  the 
avenue,  and  went  on  toward  the  Bay,  painfully  travers- 
ing block  after  block,  begging  of  all  whom  she  met  (for 
she  no  longer  made  any  distinction  among  the  passers-by) . 

"  Say,  say,  den,  blease  hellup  a  boor  womun." 

"  Mammy,  mammy,  I'm  hungry." 

It  was  Friday  night,  between  seven  and  eight.  The 
great  deserted  avenue  was  already  dark.  A  sea  fog  was 
scudding  overhead,  and  by  degrees  descending  lower. 
The  warmth  was  of  the  meagerest,  and  the  street  lamps, 
birds  of  fire  in  cages  of  glass,  fluttered  and  danced  in  the 
prolonged  gusts  of  the  trade  wind  that  threshed  and 
weltered  in  the  city  streets  from  off  the  ocean. 

Presley  entered  the  dining-room  of  the  Gerard  man- 
sion with  little  Miss  Gerard  on  his  arm.  The  other 
guests  had  preceded  them — Cedarquist  with  Mrs. 


602  The  Octopus 

Gerard;  a  pale-faced,  languid  young  man  (introduced  to 
Presley  as  Julian  Lambert)  with  Presley's  cousin  Bea- 
trice, one  of  the  twin  daughters  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cedar- 
quist ;  his  brother  Stephen,  whose  hair  was  straight  as  an 
Indian's,  but  of  a  pallid  straw  color,  with  Beatrice's 
sister;  Gerard  himself,  taciturn,  bearded,  rotund,  loud  of 
breath,  escorted  Mrs.  Cedarquist.  Besides  these,  there 
were  one  or  two  other  couples,  whose  names  Presley  did 
not  remember. 

The  dining-room  was  superb  in  its  appointments.  On 
three  sides  of  the  room,  to  the  height  of  some  ten  feet, 
ran  a  continuous  picture,  an  oil  painting,  divided  into 
long  sections  by  narrow  panels  of  black  oak.  The  paint- 
ing represented  the  personages  in  the  Romaunt  de  la 
Rose,  and  was  conceived  in  an  atmosphere  of  the  most 
delicate,  most  ephemeral  allegory.  One  saw  young  che- 
valiers, blue-eyed,  of  elemental  beauty  and  purity ;  women 
with  crowns,  gold  girdles,  and  cloudy  wimples;  young 
girls,  entrancing  in  their  loveliness,  wearing  snow-white 
kerchiefs,  their  golden  hair  unbound  and  flowing,  dressed 
in  white  samite,  bearing  armfuls  of  flowers;  the  whole 
procession  defiling  against  a  background  of  forest  glades, 
venerable  oaks,  half-hidden  fountains,  and  fields  of  aspho- 
del and  roses. 

Otherwise,  the  room  was  simple.  Against  the  side 
of  the  wall  unoccupied  by  the  picture  stood  a  sideboard  of 
gigantic  size,  that  once  had  adorned  the  banquet  hall  of 
an  Italian  palace  of  the  late  Renaissance.  It  was  black 
with  age,  and  against  its  sombre  surfaces  glittered  an 
array  of  heavy  silver  dishes  and  heavier  cut-glass  bowls 
and  goblets. 

The  company  sat  down  to  the  first  course  of  raw  Blue 
Point  oysters,  served  upon  little  pyramids  of  shaved  ice, 
and  the  two  butlers  at  once  began  filling  the  glasses  of 
the  guests  with  cool  Haut  Sauterne. 


A  Story  of  California  603 

Mrs.  Gerard,  who  was  very  proud  of  her  dinners,  and 
never  able  to  resist  the  temptation  of  commenting  upon 
them  to  her  guests,  leaned  across  to  Presley  and  Mrs. 
Cedarquist,  murmuring,  "  Mr.  Presley,  do  you  find  that 
Sauterne  too  cold  ?  I  always  believe  it  is  so  bourgeois  to 
keep  such  a  delicate  wine  as  Sauterne  on  the  ice,  and  to 
ice  Bordeaux  or  Burgundy — oh,  it  is  nothing  short  of  a 
crime." 

"  This  is  from  your  own  vineyard,  is  it  not  ?  "  asked 
Julian  Lambert.  "  I  think  I  recognise  the  bouquet." 

He  strove  to  maintain  an  attitude  of  fin  gourmet,  un- 
able to  refrain  from  comment  upon  the  courses  as  they 
succeeded  one  another. 

Little  Honora  Gerard  turned  to  Presley: 
"  You  know,"  she  explained,  "  Papa  has  his  own  vine- 
yards in  southern  France.  He  is  so  particular  about  his 
wines ;  turns  up  his  nose  at  California  wines.  And  I 
am  to  go  there  next  summer.  Ferrieres  is  the  name  of 
the  place  where  our  vineyards  are,  the  dearest  village !  " 

She  was  a  beautiful  little  girl  of  a  dainty  porcelain 
type,  her  colouring  low  in  tone.  She  wore  no  jewels,  but 
her  little,  undeveloped  neck  and  shoulders,  of  an  exquisite 
immaturity,  rose  from  the  tulle  bodice  of  her  first 
decollete  gown. 

"  Yes,"  she  continued ;  "  I'm  to  go  to  Europe  for  the 
first  time.  Won't  it  be  gay?  And  I  am  to  have  my 
own  bonne,  and  Mamma  and  I  are  to  travel — so  many 
places,  Baden,  Homburg,  Spa,  the  Tyrol.  Won't  it  be 
gay?" 

Presley  assented  in  meaningless  words.  He  sipped  his 
wine  mechanically,  looking  about  that  marvellous  room, 
with  its  subdued  saffron  lights,  its  glitter  of  glass  and 
silver,  its  beautiful  women  in  their  elaborate  toilets,  its 
deft,  correct  servants ;  its  array  of  tableware — cut  glass, 
chased  silver,  and  Dresden  crockery.  It  was  Wealth,  in 


604  The  Octopus 

all  its  outward  and  visible  forms,  the  signs  of  an  opu- 
lence so  great  that  it  need  never  be  husbanded.  It  was 
the  home  of  a  railway  "  Magnate,"  a  Railroad  King. 
For  this,  then,  the  farmers  paid.  It  was  for  this  that  S. 
Behrman  turned  the  screw,  tightened  the  vise.  It  was  for 
this  that  Dyke  had  been  driven  to  outlawry  and  a  jail. 
It  was  for  this  that  Lyman  Derrick  had  been  bought, 
the  Governor  ruined  and  broken,  Annixter  shot  down, 
Hooven  killed. 

The  soup,  puree  a  la  Derby,  was  served,  and  at  the 
same  time,  as  Iwrs  d'auvres,  ortolan  patties,  together 
with  a  tiny  sandwich  made  of  browned  toast  and  thin 
slices  of  ham,  sprinkled  over  with  Parmesan  cheese.  The 
wine,  so  Mrs.  Gerard  caused  it  to  be  understood,  was 
Xeres,  of  the  1815  vintage. 

Mrs.  Hooven  crossed  the  avenue.  It  was  growing 
late.  Without  knowing  it,  she  had  come  to  a  part  of  the 
city  that  experienced  beggars  shunned.  There  was  no- 
body about.  Block  after  block  of  residences  stretched 
away  on  either  hand,  lighted,  full  of  people.  But  the 
sidewalks  were  deserted. 

"  Mammy/'  whimpered  Hilda.    "  I'm  tired,  carry  me." 

Using  all  her  strength,  Mrs.  Hooven  picked  her  up 
and  moved  on  aimlessly. 

Then  again  that  terrible  cry,  the  cry  of  the  hungry 
child  appealing  to  the  helpless  mother: 

"  Mammy,  I'm  hungry." 

"  Ach,  Gott,  leedle  girl,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hooven,  hold- 
ing her  close  to  her  shoulder,  the  tears  starting  from  her 
eyes.  "  Ach,  leedle  tochter.  Doand,  doand,  doand.  You 
praik  my  hairt.  I  cen't  vind  any  subber.  We  got  nod- 
dings  to  eat,  noddings,  noddings." 

"When  do  we  have  those  bread'n  milk  again, 
Mammy?  " 


A  Story  of  California  605 

"  To-morrow  —  soon  —  py-and-py,  Hilda.  I  doand 
know  what  pecome  oaf  us  now,  what  pecome  oaf  my 
leedle  babby." 

She  went  on,  holding  Hilda  against  her  shoulder  with 
one  arm  as  best  she  might,  one  hand  steadying  herself 
against  the  fence  railings  along  the  sidewalk.  At  last,  a 
solitary  pedestrian  came  into  view,  a  young  man  in  a  top 
hat  and  overcoat,  walking  rapidly.  Mrs.  Hooven  held 
out  a  quivering  hand  as  he  passed  her. 

"  Say,  say,  den,  Meest'r,  blease  hellup  a  boor  womun." 

The  other  hurried  on. 

The  fish  course  was  grenadins  of  bass  and  small  sal- 
mon, the  latter  stuffed,  and  cooked  in  white  wine  and 
mushroom  liquor. 

"  I  have  read  your  poem,  of  course,  Mr.  Presley,"  ob- 
served Mrs.  Gerard.  "  '  The  Toilers/  I  mean.  What  a 
sermon  you  read  us,  you  dreadful  young  man.  I  felt 
that  I  ought  at  once  to  '  sell  all  that  I  have  and  give  to  the 
poor/  Positively,  it  did  stir  me  up.  You  may  con- 
gratulate yourself  upon  making  at  least  one  convert. 
Just  because  of  that  poem  Mrs.  Cedarquist  and  I  have 
started  a  movement  to  send  a  whole  shipload  of  wheat 
to  the  starving  people  in  India.  Now,  you  horrid 
reactionnaire,  are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  murmured  Presley. 

"  But  I  am  afraid,"  observed  Mrs.  Cedarquist,  "  that 
we  may  be  too  late.  They  are  dying  so  fast,  those  poor 
people.  By  the  time  our  ship  reaches  India  the  famine 
may  be  all  over." 

"  One  need  never  be  afraid  of  being  '  too  late  *  in  the 
matter  of  helping  the  destitute/7  answered  Presley. 
"  Unfortunately,  they  are  always  a  fixed  quantity.  '  The 
poor  ye  have  always  with  you/  " 

"  How  very  clever  that  is/'  said  Mrs.  Gerard. 


606  The  Octopus 

Mrs.  Cedarquist  tapped  the  table  with  her  fan  in  mild 
applause. 

"  Brilliant,  brilliant,"  she  murmured,  "  epigram- 
matical." 

"  Honora/'  said  Mrs.  Gerard,  turning  to  her  daughter, 
at  that  moment  in  conversation  with  the  languid  Lam- 
bert, "  Honora,  entends-tu,  ma  chcrie,  I'esprit  de  noire 
jeune  Lamartine." 


Mrs.  Hooven  went  on,  stumbling  from  street  to  street, 
holding  Hilda  to  her  breast.  Famine  gnawed  incessantly 
at  her  stomach;  walk  though  she  might,  turn  upon  her 
tracks  up  and  down  the  streets,  back  to  the  avenue  again, 
incessantly  and  relentlessly  the  torture  dug  into  her 
vitals.  She  was  hungry,  hungry,  and  if  the  want  of  food 
harassed  and  rended  her,  full-grown  woman  that  she  was, 
what  must  it  be  in  the  poor,  starved  stomach  of  her  little 
girl?  Oh,  for  some  helping  hand  now,  oh,  for  one  little 
mouthful,  one  little  nibble !  Food,  food,  all  her  wrecked 
body  clamoured  for  nourishment ;  anything  to  numb  those 
gnawing  teeth — an  abandoned  loaf,  hard,  mouldered;  a 
half-eaten  fruit,  yes,  even  the  refuse  of  the  gutter,  even 
the  garbage  of  the  ash  heap.  On  she  went,  peering  into 
dark  corners,  into  the  areaways,  anywhere,  everywhere, 
watching  the  silent  prowling  of  cats,  the  intent  rovings 
of  stray  dogs.  But  she  was  growing  weaker ;  the  pains 
and  cramps  in  her  stomach  returned.  Hilda's  weight 
bore  her  to  the  pavement.  More  than  once  a  great  giddi- 
ness, a  certain  wheeling  faintness  all  but  overcame  her. 
Hilda,  however,  was  asleep.  To  wake  her  would  only 
mean  to  revive  her  to  the  consciousness  of  hunger;  yet 
how  to  carry  her  further?  Mrs.  Hooven  began  to  fear 
that  she  would  fall  with  her  child  in  her  arms.  The 
terror  of  a  collapse  upon  those  cold  pavements  glistening 
with  fog-damp  roused  her ;  she  must  make  an  effort  to 


A  Story  of  California  607 

get  through  the  night.  She  rallied  all  her  strength,  and 
pausing  a  moment  to  shift  the  weight  of  her  baby  to  the 
other  arm,  once  more  set  off  through  the  night.  A  little 
while  later  she  found  on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk  the 
peeling  of  a  banana.  It  had  been  trodden  upon  and  it 
was  muddy,  but  joyfully  she  caught  it  up. 

"  Hilda,"  she  cried,  "  wake  oop,  leedle  girl.  See,  loog 
den,  dere's  somedings  to  eat.  Look  den,  hey?  Dat's 
goot,  ain't  it?  Zum  bunaner." 

But  it  could  not  be  eaten.  Decayed,  dirty,  all  but  rot- 
ting, the  stomach  turned  from  the  refuse,  nauseated. 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Hilda,  "  that's  not  good.  I  can't  eat  it. 
Oh,  Mammy,  please  gif  me  those  bread'n  milk." 


By  now  the  guests  of  Mrs.  Gerard  had  come  to  the 
entrees — Londonderry  pheasants,  escallops  of  duck,  and 
rissole  ties  a  la  pompadour.  The  wine  was  Chateau 
Latour. 

All  around  the  table  conversations  were  going  forward 
gayly.  The  good  wines  had  broken  up  the  slight  re- 
straint of  the  early  part  of  the  evening  and  a  spirit  of 
good  humour  and  good  fellowship  prevailed.  Young 
Lambert  and  Mr.  Gerard  were  deep  in  reminiscences  of 
certain  mutual  duck-shooting  expeditions.  Mrs.  Gerard 
and  Mrs.  Cedarquist  discussed  a  novel — a  strange  min- 
gling of  psychology,  degeneracy,  and  analysis  of  erotic 
conditions — which  had  just  been  translated  from  the  Ital- 
ian. Stephen  Lambert  and  Beatrice  disputed  over  the 
merits  of  a  Scotch  collie  just  given  to  the  young  lady. 
The  scene  was  gay,  the  electric  bulbs  sparkled,  the  wine 
flashing  back  the  light.  The  entire  table  was  a  vague 
glow  of  white  napery,  delicate  china,  and  glass  as  brilliant 
as  crystal.  Behind  the  guests  the  serving-men  came  and 
went,  filling  the  glasses  continually,  changing  the  covers, 
serving  the  entrees,  managing  the  dinner  without  in- 


6o8  The  Octopus 

terruption,  confusion,  or  the  slightest  unnecessary 
noise. 

But  Presley  could  find  no  enjoyment  in  the  occasion. 
From  that  picture  of  feasting,  that  scene  of  luxury,  that 
atmosphere  of  decorous,  well-bred  refinement,  his 
thoughts  went  back  to  Los  Muertos  and  Quien  Sabe  and 
the  irrigating  ditch  at  Hooven's.  He  saw  them  fall,  one 
by  one,  Harran,  Annixter,  Osterman,  Broderson,  Hooven. 
The  clink  of  the  wine  glasses  was  drowned  in  the  ex- 
plosion of  revolvers.  The  Railroad  might  indeed  be  a 
force  only,  which  no  man  could  control  and  for  which  no 
man  was  responsible,  but  his  friends  had  been  killed,  but 
years  of  extortion  and  oppression  had  wrung  money 
from  all  the  San  Joaquin,  money  that  had  made  possible 
this  very  scene  in  which  he  found  himself.  Because 
Magnus  had  been  beggared,  Gerard  had  become  Railroad 
King ;  because  the  farmers  of  the  valley  were  poor,  these 
men  were  rich. 

The  fancy  grew  big  in  his  mind,  distorted,  caricatured, 
terrible.  Because  the  farmers  had  been  killed  at  the  irri- 
gation ditch,  these  others,  Gerard  and  his  family,  fed  full. 
They  fattened  on  the  blood  of  the  People,  on  the  blood 
of  the  men  who  had  been  killed  at  the  ditch.  It  was  a 
half-ludicrous,  half-horrible  "  dog  eat  dog,"  an  unspeak- 
able cannibalism.  Harran,  Annixter,  and  Hooven  were 
being  devoured  there  under  his  eyes.  These  dainty 
women,  his  cousin  Beatrice  and  little  Miss  Gerard,  frail, 
delicate ;  all  these  fine  ladies  with  their  small  fingers  and 
slender  necks,  suddenly  were  transfigured  in  his  tortured 
mind  into  harpies  tearing  human  flesh.  His  head  swam 
with  the  horror  of  it,  the  terror  of  it.  Yes,  the  People 
would  turn  some  day,  and  turning,  rend  those  who  now 
preyed  upon  them.  It  would  be  "  dog  eat  dog  "  again, 
with  positions  reversed,  and  he  saw  for  one  instant  of 
time  that  splendid  house  sacked  to  its  foundations,  the 


A  Story  of  California  609 

tables  overturned,  the  pictures  torn,  the  hangings  blaz- 
ing, and  Liberty,  the  red-handed  Man  in  the  Street, 
grimed  with  powder  smoke,  foul  with  the  gutter,  rush 
yelling,  torch  in  hand,  through  every  door. 


At  ten  o'clock  Mrs.  Hooven  fell. 

Luckily  she  was  leading  Hilda  by  the  hand  at  the  time 
and  the  little  girl  was  not  hurt.  In  vain  had  Mrs. 
Hooven,  hour  after  hour,  walked  the  streets.  After  a 
while  she  no  longer  made  any  attempt  to  beg;  nobody 
was  stirring,  nor  did  she  even  try  to  hunt  for  food  with 
the  stray  dogs  and  cats.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
return  to  the  park  in  order  to  sit  upon  the  benches  there, 
but  she  had  mistaken  the  direction,  and  following  up 
Sacramento  Street,  had  come  out  at  length,  not  upon  the 
park,  but  upon  a  great  vacant  lot  at  the  very  top  of  the 
Clay  Street  hill.  The  ground  was  unfenced  and  rose 
above  her  to  form  the  cap  of  the  hill,  all  overgrown  with 
bushes  and  a  few  stunted  live  oaks.  It  was  in  trying  to 
cross  this  piece  of  ground  that  she  fell.  She  got  upon 
her  feet  again. 

"  Ach,  Mammy,  did  you  hurt  yourself  ?  "  asked  Hilda. 

"  No,  no." 

"  Is  that  house  where  we  get  those  bread'n  milk  ?  " 

Hilda  pointed  to  a  single  rambling  building  just  visi- 
ble in  the  night,  that  stood  isolated  upon  the  summit  of 
the  hill  in  a  grove  of  trees. 

"  No,  no,  dere  aindt  no  braid  end  miluk,  leedle  tochter." 

Hilda  once  more  began  to  sob. 

"  Ach,  Mammy,  please,  please,  I  want  it.    I'm  hungry." 

The  jangled  nerves  snapped  at  last  under  the  tension, 
and  Mrs.  Hooven,  suddenly  shaking  Hilda  roughly,  cried 
out: 

"  Stop,  stop.  Doand  say  ut  egen,  you.  My  Gott,  you 
kill  me  yet." 


610  The  Octopus 

But  quick  upon  this  came  the  reaction.  The  mother 
caught  her  little  girl  to  her,  sinking  down  upon  her 
knees,  putting  her  arms  around  her,  holding  her  close. 

"  No,  no,  gry  all  so  mudge  es  you  want.  Say  dot  you 
are  hongry.  Say  ut  egen,  say  ut  all  de  dime,  ofer  end 
ofer  egen.  Say  ut,  poor,  starfing,  leedle  babby.  Oh, 
mein  poor,  leedle  tochter.  My  Gott,  oh,  I  go  crazy 
bretty  soon,  I  guess.  I  cent  hellup  you.  I  cen't  ged 
you  noddings  to  eat,  noddings,  noddings.  Hilda,  we 
gowun  to  die  togedder.  Put  der  arms  roundt  me,  soh, 
tighd,  leedle  babby.  We  gowun  to  die,  we  gowun 
to  vind  Popper.  We  aindt  gowun  to  be  hongry  eny 
more." 

"  Vair  we  go  now  ?  "  demanded  Hilda. 

"  No  places.  Mommer's  soh  tiredt.  We  stop  heir, 
leedle  while,  end  rest." 

Underneath  a  large  bush  that  afforded  a  little  shelter 
from  the  wind,  Mrs.  Hooven  lay  down,  taking  Hilda  in 
her  arms  and  wrapping  her  shawl  about  her.  The  infi- 
nite, vast  night  expanded  gigantic  all  around  them.  At 
this  elevation  they  were  far  above  the  city.  It  was  still. 
Close  overhead  whirled  the  chariots  of  the  fog,  galloping 
landward,  smothering  lights,  blurring  outlines.  Soon  all 
sight  of  the  town  was  shut  out ;  even  the  solitary  house  on 
the  hilltop  vanished.  There  was  nothing  left  but  grey, 
wheeling  fog,  and  the  mother  and  child,  alone,  shivering, 
in  a  little  strip  of  damp  ground,  an  island  drifting  aim- 
lessly in  empty  space. 

Hilda's  fingers  touched  a  leaf  from  the  bush  and  in- 
stinctively closed  upon  it  and  carried  it  to  her  mouth. 

"  Mammy,"  she  said,  "  I'm  eating  those  leaf.  Is  those 
good?" 

Her  mother  did  not  reply. 

"  You  going  to  sleep,  Mammy  ? "  inquired  Hilda, 
touching  her  face 


A  Story  of  California  6 1 1 

Mrs.  Hooven  roused  herself  a  little. 

"  Hey  ?  Vat  you  say  ?  Asleep  ?  Yais,  I  guess  I  wass 
asleep." 

Her  voice  trailed  unintelligibly  to  silence  again.  She 
was  not,  however,  asleep.  Her  eyes  were  open.  A  grate- 
ful numbness  had  begun  to  creep  over  her,  a  pleasing 
semi-insensibility.  She  no  longer  felt  the  pain  and 
cramps  of  her  stomach,  even  the  hunger  was  ceasing  to 
bite. 


"  These  stuffed  artichokes  are  delicious,  Mrs.  Gerard,"" 
murmured  young  Lambert,  wiping  his  lips  with  a  corner 
of  his  napkin.  "  Pardon  me  for  mentioning  it,  but  your 
dinner  must  be  my  excuse." 

"  And  this  asparagus — since  Mr.  Lambert  has  set  the 
bad  example,"  observed  Mrs.  Cedarquist,  "  so  delicate, 
such  an  exquisite  flavour.  How  do  you  manage  ?  " 

"  We  get  all  our  asparagus  from  the  southern  part  of 
the  State,  from  one  particular  ranch,"  explained  Mrs. 
Gerard.  "  We  order  it  by  wire  and  get  it  only  twenty 
hours  after  cutting.  My  husband  sees  to  it  that  it  is 
put  on  a  special  train.  It  stops  at  this  ranch  just  to  take 
on  our  asparagus.  Extravagant,  isn't  it,  but  I  simply 
cannot  eat  asparagus  that  has  been  cut  more  than  a 
day." 

"  Nor  I,"  exclaimed  Julian  Lambert,  who  posed  as  an 
epicure.  "  I  can  tell  to  an  hour  just  how  long  asparagus 
has  been  picked." 

"  Fancy  eating  ordinary  market  asparagus,"  said  Mrs. 
Gerard,  "  that  has  been  fingered  by  Heaven  knows  how 
many  hands." 


"  Mammy,  mammy,  wake  up,"  cried  Hilda,  trying  to 
push  open  Mrs.  Hooven's  eyelids,  at  last  closed.  "  Mam- 
my, don't.  You're  just  trying  to  frighten  me." 


612  The  Octopus 

Feebly  Hilda  shook  her  by  the  shoulder.  At  last  Mrs. 
Hooven's  lips  stirred.  Putting  her  head  down,  Hilda 
distinguished  the  whispered  words : 

"  I'm  sick.  Go  to  schleep.  .  .  .  Sick.  .  .  . 
Noddings  to  eat." 


The  dessert  was  a  wonderful  preparation  of  alternate 
layers  of  biscuit  glaces,  ice  cream,  and  candied  chestnuts. 

"  Delicious,  is  it  not?  "  observed  Julian  Lambert,  partly 
to  himself,  partly  to  Miss  Cedarquist.  "  This  Moscovite 
fouette — upon  my  word,  I  have  never  tasted  its  equal." 

"  And  you  should  know,  shouldn't  you  ?  "  returned  the 
young  lady. 

"  Mammy,  mammy,  wake  up,"  cried  Hilda.  "  Don't 
sleep  so.  I'm  frightenedt." 

Repeatedly  she  shook  her ;  repeatedly  she  tried  to  raise 
the  inert  eyelids  with  the  point  of  her  ringer.  But  her 
mother  no  longer  stirred.  The  gaunt,  lean  body,  with  its 
bony  face  and  sunken  eye-sockets,  lay  back,  prone  upon 
the  ground,  the  feet  upturned  and  showing  the  ragged, 
worn  soles  of  the  shoes,  the  forehead  and  grey  hair 
beaded  with  fog,  the  poor,  faded  bonnet  awry,  the  poor, 
faded  dress  soiled  and  torn. 

Hilda  drew  close  to  her  mother,  kissing  her  face,  twin- 
ing her  arms  around  her  neck.  For  a  long  time,  she  lay 
that  way,  alternately  sobbing  and  sleeping.  Then,  after 
a  long  time,  there  was  a  stir.  She  woke  from  a  doze  to 
find  a  police  officer  and  two  or  three  other  men  bending 
over  her.  Some  one  carried  a  lantern.  Terrified,  smitten 
dumb,  she  was  unable  to  answer  the  questions  put  to  her. 
Then  a  woman,  evidently  a  mistress  of  the  house  on  the 
top  of  the  hill,  arrived  and  took  Hilda  in  her  arms  and 
cried  over  her. 

"  I'll  take  the  little  girl,"  she  said  to  the  police  officer. 


A  Story  of  California  613 

But  the  mother,  can  you  save  her?     Is  she  too  far 

me?" 

"  I've  sent  for  a  doctor,"  replied  the  other. 


gone? 


Just  before  the  ladies  left  the  table,  young  Lambert 
raised  his  glass  of  Madeira.  Turning  towards  the  wife 
of  the  Railroad  King,  he  said : 

"  My  best  compliments  for  a  delightful  dinner." 


The  doctor  who  had  been  bending  over  Mrs.  Hooven, 
rose. 

"  It's  no  use/'  he  said ;  "  she  has  been  dead  some  time— 
exhaustion  from  starvation." 


IX 


On  Division  Number  Three  of  the  Los  Muertos  ranch 
the  wheat  had  already  been  cut,  and  S.  Behrman  on  a 
certain  morning  in  the  first  week  of  August  drove  across 
the  open  expanse  of  stubble  toward  the  southwest,  his 
eyes  searching  the  horizon  for  the  feather  of  smoke  that 
would  mark  the  location  of  the  steam  harvester.  How- 
ever, he  saw  nothing.  The  stubble  extended  onward 
apparently  to  the  very  margin  of  the  world. 

At  length,  S.  Behrman  halted  his  buggy  and  brought 
out  his  field  glasses  from  beneath  the  seat.  He  stood 
up  in  his  place  and,  adjusting  the  lenses,  swept  the  pros- 
pect to  the  south  and  west.  It  was  the  same  as  though 
the  sea  of  land  were,  in  reality,  the  ocean,  and  he,  lost  in 
an  open  boat,  were  scanning  the  waste  through  his 
glasses,  looking  for  the  smoke  of  a  steamer,  hull  down, 
below  the  horizon.  "  Wonder,"  he  muttered,  "  if  they're 
working  on  Four  this  morning  ?  " 

At  length,  he  murmured  an  "  Ah  "  of  satisfaction.  Far 
to  the  south  into  the  white  sheen  of  sky,  immediately  over 
the  horizon,  he  made  out  a  faint  smudge — the  harvester 
beyond  doubt. 

Thither  S.  Behrman  turned  his  horse's  head  It  was 
all  of  an  hour's  drive  over  the  uneven  ground  and 
through  the  crackling  stubble,  but  at  length  he  readied 
the  harvester.  He  found,  however,  that  it  had  been 
halted.  The  sack  sewers,  together  with  the  header-man, 
were  stretched  on  the  ground  in  the  shade  of  the  ma- 
chine, while  the  engineer  and  separator-man  were  potter- 
ing about  a  portion  of  the  works. 


A  Story  of  California  615 

"What's  the  matter,  Billy?"  demanded  S.  Behrman 
reining  up. 

The  engineer  turned  about. 

"  The  grain  is  heavy  in  here.  We  thought  we'd  better 
increase  the  speed  of  the  cup-carrier,  and  pulled  up  to 
put  in  a  smaller  sprocket." 

S.  Behrman  nodded  to  say  that  was  all  right,  and 
added  a  question. 

"  How  is  she  going?  " 

"Anywheres  from  twenty-five  to  thirty  sacks  to  the 
acre  right  along  here;  nothing  the  matter  with  that  I 
guess." 

"  Nothing  in  the  world,  Bill." 

One  of  the  sack  sewers  interposed : 

"  For  the  last  half  hour  we've  been  throwing  off  three 
bags  to  the  minute." 

"  That's  good,  that's  good." 

It  was  more  than  good ;  it  was  "  bonanza,"  and  all  that 
division  of  the  great  ranch  was  thick  with  just  such 
wonderful  wheat.  Never  had  Los  Muertos  been  more 
generous,  never  a  season  more  successful.  S.  Behrman 
drew  a  long  breath  of  satisfaction.  He  knew  just  how 
great  was  his  share  in  the  lands  which  had  just  been 
absorbed  by  the  corporation  he  served,  just  how  many 
thousands  of  bushels  of  this  marvellous  crop  were  his 
property.  Through  all  these  years  of  confusion,  bicker- 
ings, open  hostility  and,  at  last,  actual  warfare  he  had 
waited,  nursing  his  patience,  calm  with  the  firm  assurance 
of  ultimate  success.  The  end,  at  length,  had  come ;  he 
had  entered  into  his  reward  and  saw  himself  at  last  in- 
stalled in  the  place  he  had  so  long,  so  silently  coveted ; 
saw  himself  chief  of  a  principality,  the  Master  of  the 
Wheat. 

The  sprocket  adjusted,  the  engineer  called  up  the  gang 
and  the  men  took  their  places.  The  fireman  stoked 


616  The  Octopus 

vigorously,  the  two  sack  sewers  resumed  their  posts  on 
the  sacking  platform,  putting  on  the  goggles  that  kept 
the  chaff  from  their  eyes.  The  separator-man  and 
header-man  gripped  their  levers. 

The  harvester,  shooting  a  column  of  thick  smoke 
straight  upward,  vibrating  to  the  top  of  the  stack,  hissed, 
clanked,  and  lurched  forward.  Instantly,  motion  sprang 
to  life  in  all  its  component  parts ;  the  header  knives,  cut- 
ting a  thirty-six  foot  swath,  gnashed  like  teeth ;  beltings 
slid  and  moved  like  smooth  flowing  streams;  the  sepa- 
rator whirred,  the  agitator  jarred  and  crashed;  cylinders, 
augers,  fans,  seeders  and  elevators,  drapers  and  chaff- 
carriers  clattered,  rumbled,  buzzed,  and  clanged.  The 
steam  hissed  and  rasped;  the  ground  reverberated  a 
hollow  note,  and  the  thousands  upon  thousands  of  wheat 
stalks  sliced  and  slashed  in  the  clashing  shears  of  the 
header,  rattled  like  dry  rushes  in  a  hurricane,  as  they  fell 
inward,  and  were  caught  up  by  an  endless  belt,  to  dis- 
appear into  the  bowels  of  the  vast  brute  that  devoured 
them. 

It  was  that  and  no  less.  It  was  the  feeding  of  some 
prodigious  monster,  insatiable,  with  iron  teeth,  gnashing 
and  threshing  into  the  fields  of  standing  wheat ;  devour- 
ing always,  never  glutted,  never  satiated,  swallowing  an 
entire  harvest,  snarling  and  slobbering  in  a  welter  of 
warm  vapour,  acrid  smoke,  and  blinding,  pungent  clouds 
of  chaff.  It  moved  belly-deep  in  the  standing  grain,  a 
hippopotamus,  half-mired  in  river  ooze,  gorging  rushes, 
snorting,  sweating;  a  dinosaur  wallowing  through 
thick,  hot  grasses,  floundering  there,  crouching,  grovel- 
ling there  as  its  vast  jaws  crushed  and  tore,  and  its 
enormous  gullet  swallowed,  incessant,  ravenous,  and 
inordinate. 

S.  Behrman,  very  much  amused,  changed  places  with 
one  of  the  sack  sewers,  allowing  him  to  hold  his  horse 


A  Story  of  California  6 1 7 

while  he  mounted  the  sacking  platform  and  took  his 
place.  The  trepidation  and  jostling  of  the  machine  shook 
him  till  his  teeth  chattered  in  his  head.  His  ears  were 
shocked  and  assaulted  by  a  myriad-tongued  clamour, 
clashing  steel,  straining  belts,  jarring  woodwork,  while 
the  impalpable  chaff  powder  from  the  separators  settled 
like  dust  in  his  hair,  his  ears,  eyes,  and  mouth. 

Directly  in  front  of  where  he  sat  on  the  platform  was 
the  chute  from  the  cleaner,  and  from  this  into  the  mouth 
of  a  half-full  sack  spouted  an  unending  gush  of  grain, 
winnowed,  cleaned,  threshed,  ready  for  the  mill. 

The  pour  from  the  chute  of  the  cleaner  had  for  S. 
Behrman  an  immense  satisfaction.  Without  an  instant's 
pause,  a  thick  rivulet  of  wheat  rolled  and  dashed  tumul- 
tuous into  the  sack.  In  half  a  minute — sometimes  in 
twenty  seconds — the  sack  was  full,  was  passed  over  to 
the  second  sewer,  the  mouth  reeved  up,  and  the  sack 
dumped  out  upon  the  ground,  to  be  picked  up  by  the 
wagons  and  hauled  to  the  railroad. 

S.  Behrman,  hypnotised,  sat  watching  that  river  of 
grain.  All  that  shrieking,  bellowing  machinery,  all  fhat 
gigantic  organism,  all  the  months  of  labour,  the  plough- 
ing, the  planting,  the  prayers  for  rain,  the  years  of  prep- 
aration, the  heartaches,  the  anxiety,  the  foresight,  all 
the  whole  business  of  the  ranch,  the  work  of  horses,  of 
steam,  of  men  and  boys,  looked  to  this  spot — the  grain 
chute  from  the  harvester  into  the  sacks.  Its  volume  was 
the  index  of  failure  or  success,  of  riches  or  poverty. 
And  at  this  point,  the  labour  of  the  rancher  ended.  Here, 
at  the  lip  of  the  chute,  he  parted  company  with  his  grain, 
and  from  here  the  wheat  streamed  forth  to  feed  the  world. 
The  yawning  mouths  of  the  sacks  might  well  stand  for 
the  unnumbered  mouths  of  the  People,  all  agape  for 
food ;  and  here,  into  these  sacks,  at  first  so  lean,  so  flaccid, 
attenuated  like  starved  stomachs,  rushed  the  living  stream 


618  The  Octopus 

of  food,  insistent,  interminable,  filling  the  empty,  fatten* 
ing  the  shrivelled,  making  it  sleek  and  heavy  and  solid. 

Half  an  hour  later,  the  harvester  stopped  again.  The 
men  on  the  sacking  platform  had  used  up  all  the  sacks. 
But  S.  Belirman's  foreman,  a  new  man  on  Los  Muertos, 
put  in  an  appearance  with  the  report  that  the  wagon 
bringing  a  fresh  supply  was  approaching. 

"  How  is  the  grain  elevator  at  Port  Costa  getting  on, 
sir?" 

"  Finished,"  replied  S.  Behrman. 

The  new  master  of  Los  Muertos  had  decided  upon 
Accumulating  his  grain  in  bulk  in  a  great  elevator  at  the 
tide-water  port,  where  the  grain  ships  for  Liverpool  and 
the  East  took  on  their  cargoes.  To  this  end,  he  had 
bought  and  greatly  enlarged  a  building  at  Port  Costa, 
that  was  already  in  use  for  that  purpose,  and  to  this 
elevator  all  the  crop  of  Los  Muertos  was  to  be  carried. 
The  P.  and  S.  W.  made  S.  Behrman  a  special  rate. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  S.  Behrman  to  his  superintendent, 
"  we're  in  luck.  Fallen's  buyer  was  in  Bonneville  yes- 
terday. He's  buying  for  Fallen  and  for  Holt,  too.  I 
happened  to  run  into  him,  and  I've  sold  a  ship  load." 

"  A  ship  load !  " 

.  "  Of  Los  Muertos  wheat.  He's  acting  for  some  Indian 
Famine  Relief  Committee — lot  of  women  people  up  in 
the  city — and  wanted  a  whole  cargo.  I  made  a  deal  with 
him.  There's  about  fifty  thousand  tons  of  disengaged 
shipping  in  San  Francisco  Bay  right  now,  and  ships  are 
fighting  for  charters.  I  wired  McKissick  and  got  a  long 
distance  telephone  from  him  this  morning.  He  got  me  a 
barque,  the  '  Swanhilda.'  She'll  dock  day  after  to- 
morrow, and  begin  loading." 

"  Hadn't  I  better  take  a  run  up,"  observed  the  superin- 
tendent, "  and  keep  an  eye  on  things  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  S.   Behrman,  "  I  want  you  to  stop 


A  Story  of  California  619 

down  here,  and  see  that  those  carpenters  hustle  the  work 
in  the  ranch  house.  Derrick  will  be  out  by  then.  You 
see  this  deal  is  peculiar.  I'm  not  selling  to  any  middle- 
man— not  to  Fallon's  buyer.  He  only  put  me  on  to  the 
thing.  I'm  acting  direct  with  these  women  people,  and 
I've  got  to  have  some  hand  in  shipping  this  stuff  myself. 
But  I  made  my  selling  figure  cover  the  price  of  a  charter. 
It's  a  queer,  mixed-up  deal,  and  I  don't  fancy  it  much, 
but  there's  boodle  in  it.  I'll  go  to  Port  Costa  myself." 

A  little  later  on  in  the  day,  when  S.  Behrman  had  satis- 
fied himself  that  his  harvesting  was  going  forward  fa-, 
vourably,  he  reentered  his  buggy  and  driving  to  the 
County  Road  turned  southward  towards  the  Los 
Muertos  ranch  house.  He  had  not  gone  far,  however, 
before  he  became  aware  of  a  familiar  figure  on  horse- 
back, jogging  slowly  along  ahead  of  him.  He  recognised 
Presley;  he  shook  the  reins  over  his  horse's  back  and 
very  soon  ranging  up  by  the  side  of  the  young  man 
passed  the  time  of  day  with  him. 

"  Well,  what  brings  you  down  here  again,  Mr.  Pres- 
ley ?  "  he  observed.  "  I  thought  we  had  seen  the  last  of 
you." 

"  I  came  down  to  say  good-bye  to  my  friends/5  an^ 
swered  Presley  shortly. 

"  Going  away  ?  " 

«  Yes— to  India." 

"Well,  upon  my  word.    For  your  health,  hey?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  look  knocked  up,"  asserted  the  other.  "  By  the 
way,"  he  added,  "  I  suppose  you've  heard  the  news  ?  " 

Presley  shrank  a  little.  Of  late  the  reports  of  disasters 
had  followed  so  swiftly  upon  one  another  that  he  had 
begun  to  tremble  and  to  quail  at  every  unexpected  bit  of 
information. 

"  What  news  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked. 


620  The  Octopus 

"About  Dyke.  He  has  been  convicted.  The  judge 
sentenced  him  for  life." 

For  life !  Riding  on  by  the  side  of  this  man  through 
the  ranches  by  the  County  Road,  Presley  repeated  these 
words  to  himself  till  the  full  effect  of  them  burst  at  last 
upon  him. 

Jailed  for  life !  No  outlook.  No  hope  for  the  future. 
Day  after  day,  year  after  year,  to  tread  the  rounds  of  the 
same  gloomy  monotony.  He  saw  the  grey  stone  walls, 
the  iron  doors ;  the  flagging  of  the  "  yard  "  bare  of  grass 
or  trees — the  cell,  narrow,  bald,  cheerless;  the  prison 
garb,  the  prison  fare,  and  round  all  the  grim  granite  of 
insuperable  barriers,  shutting  out  the  world,  shutting  in 
the  man  with  outcasts,  with  the  pariah  dogs  'of  society, 
thieves,  murderers,  men  below  the  beasts,  lost  to  all  de- 
cency, drugged  with  opium,  utter  reprobates.  To  this, 
Dyke  had  been  brought,  Dyke,  than  whom  no  man  had 
been  more  honest,  more  courageous,  more  jovial.  This 
was  the  end  of  him,  a  prison ;  this  was  his  final  estate,  a 
criminal. 

Presley  found  an  excuse  for  riding  on,  leaving  S. 
Behrman  behind  him.  He  did  not  stop  at  Caraher's 
saloon,  for  the  heat  of  his  rage  had  long  since  begun  to 
cool,  and  dispassionately,  he  saw  things  in  their  true 
light.  For  all  the  tragedy  of  his  wife's  death,  Caraher 
was  none  the  less  an  evil  influence  among  the  ranchers, 
an  influence  that  worked  only  to  the  inciting  of  crime. 
Unwilling  to  venture  himself,  to  risk  his  own  life,  the 
anarchist  saloon-keeper  had  goaded  Dyke  and  Presley 
both  to  murder ;  a  bad  man,  a  plague  spot  in  the  world 
of  the  ranchers,  poisoning  the  farmers'  bodies  with  alco- 
hol and  their  minds  with  discontent. 

At  last,  Presley  arrived  at  the  ranch  house  of  Los 
Muertos.  The  place  was  silent;  the  grass  on  the  lawn 
was  half  dead  and  over  a  foot  high;  the  beginnings  of 


A  Story  of  California  621 

weeds  showed  here  and  there  in  the  driveway.  He  tied 
his  horse  to  a  ring  in  the  trunk  of  one  of  the  larger 
eucalyptus  trees  and  entered  the  house. 

Mrs.  Derrick  met  him  in  the  dining-room.  The  old 
look  of  uneasiness,  almost  of  terror,  had  gone  from  her 
wide-open  brown  eyes.  There  was  in  them  instead,  .the 
expression  of  one  to  whom  a  contingency,  long  dreaded, 
has  arrived  and  passed.  The  stolidity  of  a  settled  grief, 
of  an  irreparable  calamity,  of  a  despair  from  which  there 
was  no  escape  was  in  her  look,  her  manner,  her  voice. 
She  was  listless,  apathetic,  calm  with  the  calmness  of  a 
woman  who  knows  she  can  suffer  no  further. 

"  We  are  going  away/'  she  told  Presley,  as  the  two 
sat  down  at  opposite  ends  of  the  dining  table.  "Just 
Magnus  and  myself — all  there  is  left  of  us.  There  is 
very  little  money  left;  Magnus  can  hardly  take  care  of 
himself,  to  say  nothing  of  me.  I  must  look  after  him 
now.  We  are  going  to  Marysville." 

"Why  there?" 

"  You  see,"  she  explained,  "  it  happens  that  my  old 
place  is  vacant  in  the  Seminary  there.  I  am  going  back 
to  teach — literature."  She  smiled  wearily.  "  It  is  be- 
ginning all  over  again,  isn't  it  ?  Only  there  is  nothing  to 
look  forward  to  now.  Magnus  is  an  old  man  already, 
and  I  must  take  care  of  him." 

"  He  will  go  with  you,  then,"  Presley  said,  "  that  will 
be  some  comfort  to  you  at  least." 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said  slowly,  "  you  have  not  seen 
Magnus  lately." 

"  Is  he — how  do  you  mean?    Isn't  he  any  better?  " 

"Would  you  like  to  see  him?  He  is  in  the  office. 
You  can  go  right  in." 

Presley  rose.    He  hesitated  a  moment,  then : 

"  Mrs.  Annixter,"  he  asked,  "  Hilma — is  she  still  with 
you  ?  I  should  like  to  see  her  before  I  go." 


622  The  Octopus 

"  Go  in  and  see  Magnus,"  said  Mrs.  Derrick.  "  I  will 
tell  her  you  are  here." 

Presley  stepped  across  the  stone-paved  hallway  with 
the  glass  roof,  and  after  knocking  three  times  at  the 
office  door  pushed  it  open  and  entered. 

Magnus  sat  in  the  chair  before  the  desk  and  did  not 
look  up  as  Presley  entered.  He  had  the  appearance  of  a 
man  nearer  eighty  than  sixty.  All  the  old-time  erect- 
ness  was  broken  and  bent.  It  was  as  though  the  muscles 
that  once  had  held  the  back  rigid,  the  chin  high,  "had 
softened  and  stretched.  A  certain  fatness,  the  obesity 
of  inertia,  hung  heavy  around  the  hips  and  abdomen,  the 
eye  was  watery  and  vague,  the  cheeks  and  chin  unshaven 
and  unkempt,  the  grey  hair  had  lost  its  forward 
curl  towards  the  temples  and  hung  thin  and  ragged 
around  the  ears.  The  hawk-like  nose  seemed  hooked 
to  meet  the  chin;  the  lips  were  slack,  the  mouth  half- 
opened. 

Where  once  the  Governor  had  been  a  model  of  neat- 
ness in  his  dress,  the  frock  coat  buttoned,  the  linen  clean, 
he  now  sat  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  the  waistcoat  open  and 
showing  the  soiled  shirt.  His  hands  were  stained  with 
ink,  and  these,  the  only  members  of  his  body  that  yet 
appeared  to  retain  their  activity,  were  busy  with  a  great 
pile  of  papers, — oblong,  legal  documents,  that  littered  the 
table  before  him.  Without  a  moment's  cessation,  these 
hands  of  the  Governor's  came  and  went  among  the 
papers,  deft,  nimble,  dexterous. 

Magnus  was  sorting  papers.  From  the  heap  upon  his 
left  hand  he  selected  a  document,  opened  it,  glanced  over 
it,  then  tied  it  carefully,  and  laid  it  away  upon  a  second 
pile  on  his  right  hand.  When  all  the  papers  were  in 
one  pile,  he  reversed  the  process,  taking  from  his  right 
hand  to  place  upon  his  left,  then  back  from  left  to 
right  again,  then  once  more  from  right  to  left.  He  spoke 


A  Story  of  California  623 

no  word,  he  sat  absolutely  still,  even  his  eyes  did  not 
move,  only  his  hands,  swift,  nervous,  agitated,  seemed 
alive. 

"  Why,  how  are  you,  Governor  ?  "  said  Presley,  coming 
forward.  Magnus  turned  slowly  about  and  looked  at 
him  and  at  the  hand  in  which  he  shook  his  own. 

"  Ah,"  he  said  at  length,  "  Presley     .     .     .     yes." 

Then  his  glance  fell,  and  he  looked  aimlessly  about 
upon  the  floor. 

"  I've  come  to  say  good-bye,  Governor,"  continued 
Presley,  "  I'm  going  away." 

"  Going  away  .  .  .  yes,  why  it's  Presley.  Good- 
day,  Presley." 

"  Good-day,  Governor.  I'm  going  away.  I've  come  to 
say  good-bye." 

"  Good-bye  ?  "  Magnus  bent  his  brows,  "  what  are  you 
saying  good-bye  for  ?  " 

"  I'm  going  away,  sir." 

The  Governor  did  not  answer.  Staring  at  the  ledge  of 
the  desk,  he  seemed  lost  in  thought.  There  was  a  long 
silence.  Then,  at  length,  Presley  said : 

"  How  are  you  getting  on,  Governor  ?  " 

Magnus  looked  up  slowly. 

"Why  it's  Presley,"  he  said.  "How  do  you  do, 
Presley." 

"  Are  you  getting  on  all  right,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes/'  said  Magnus  after  a  while,  "  yes,  all  right.  I 
am  going  away.     I've  come  to   say  good-bye.     No — 
He  interrupted  himself  with  a  deprecatory  smile,  "  you 
said  that,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  are  going  away,  too,  your  wife  tells  me." 

"  Yes,  I'm  going  away.     I  can't  stay  on     ... 
he  hesitated  a  long  time,  groping  for  the  right  word,  "  I 
can't  stay  on — on — what's  the  name  of  this  place?  " 

"  Los  Muertos/'  put  in  Presley. 


624  The  Octopus 

"  No,  it  isn't.  Yes,  it  is,  too,  that's  right,  Los  Muer- 
tos.  I  don't  know  where  my  memory  has  gone  to  of 
late." 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  will  be  better  soon,  Governor." 

As  Presley  spoke  the  words,  S.  Behrman  entered  the 
room,  and  the  Governor  sprang  up  with  unexpected 
agility  and  stood  against  the  wall,  drawing  one  long 
breath  after  another,  watching  the  railroad  agent  with 
intent  eyes. 

S.  Behrman  saluted  both  men  affably  and  sat  down 
near  the  desk,  drawing  the  links  of  his  heavy  watch  chain 
through  his  fat  fingers. 

"  There  wasn't  anybody  outside  when  I  knocked,  but  I 
heard  your  voice  in  here,  Governor,  so  I  came  right  in.  I 
wanted  to  ask  you,  Governor,  if  my  carpenters  can  begin 
work  in  here  day  after  to-morrow.  I  want  to  take  down 
that  partition  there,  and  throw  this  room  and  the  next 
into  one.  I  guess  that  will  be  O.  K.,  won't  it  ?  You'll  be 
out  of  here  by  then,  won't  you  ?  " 

There  was  no  vagueness  about  Magnus's  speech  or 
manner  now.  There  was  that  same  alertness  in  his 
demeanour  that  one  sees  in  a  tamed  lion  in  the  presence 
of  its  trainer. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said  quickly,  "  you  can  send  your  men 
here.  I  will  be  gone  by  to-morrow." 

"  I  don't  want  to  seem  to  hurry  you,  Governor." 

"  No,  you  will  not  hurry  me.    I  am  ready  to  go  now." 

"Anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Governor?  " 

"  Nothing/' 

"  Yes,  there  is,  Governor,"  insisted  S.  Behrman.  "  I 
think  now  that  all  is  over  we  ought  to  be  good  friends. 
I  think  I  can  do  something  for  you.  We  still  want  an 
assistant  in  the  local  freight  manager's  office.  Now, 
what  do  you  say  to  having  a  try  at  it?  There's  a  salary 
of  fifty  a  month  goes  with  it.  I  guess  you  must  be  in 


A  Story  of  California  625 

need  of  money  now,  and  there's  always  the  wife  to  sup- 
port ;  what  do  you  say  ?  Will  you  try  the  place  ?  " 

Presley  could  only  stare  at  the  man  in  speechless 
wonder.  What  was  he  driving  at?  What  reason  was 
there  back  of  this  new  move,  and  why  should  it  be  made 
thus  openly  and  in  his  hearing  ?  An  explanation  occurred 
to  him.  Was  this  merely  a  pleasantry  on  the  part  of  S. 
Behrman,  a  way  of  enjoying  to  the  full  his  triumph ;  was 
he  testing  the  completeness  of  his  victory,  trying  to  see 
just  how  far  he  could  go,  how  far  beneath  his  feet  he 
could  push  his  old-time  enemy? 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  Will  you  try  the 
place?" 

"  You — you  insist?  "  inquired  the  Governor. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  insisting  on  anything,"  cried  S.  Behr- 
man. "  I'm  offering  you  a  place,  that's  all.  Will  you 
take  it?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I'll  take  it." 

"  You'll  come  over  to  our  side  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I'll  come  over." 

"  You'll  have  to  turn  '  railroad,'  understand  ?  " 

"  I'll  turn  railroad." 

"  Guess  there  may  be  times  when  you'll  have  to  take 
orders  from  me." 

"  I'll  take  orders  from  you." 

"  You'll  have  to  be  loyal  to  railroad,  you  know.  No 
funny  business." 

"  I'll  be  loyal  to  the  railroad." 

"You  would  like  the  place  then?" 

"  Yes." 

S.  Behrman  turned  from  Magnus,  who  at  once  resumed 
his  seat  and  began  again  to  sort  his  papers. 

"  Well,  Presley,"  said  the  railroad  agent :  "  I  guess  I 
won't  see  you  again." 

"  I  hope  not,"  answered  the  other. 


626  The  Octopus 

"  Trt,  tut,  Presley,  you  know  you  can't  make  me 
angry." 

He  put  on  his  hat  of  varnished  straw  and  wiped  his 
fat  forehead  with  his  handkerchief.  Of  late,  he  had 
grown  fatter  than  ever,  and  the  linen  vest,  stamped  with 
a  multitude  of  interlocked  horseshoes,  strained  tight  its 
imitation  pearl  buttons  across  the  great  protuberant 
stomach. 

Presley  looked  at  the  man  a  moment  before  replying. 
But  a  few  weeks  ago  he  could  not  thus  have  faced  the 
great  enemy  of  the  farmers  without  a  gust  of  blind  rage 
blowing  tempestuous  through  all  his  bones.  Now,  how- 
ever, he  found  to  his  surprise  that  his  fury  had  lapsed  to 
a  profound  contempt,  in  which  there  was  bitterness,  but 
no  truculence.  He  was  tired,  tired  to  death  of  the  whole 
business. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  deliberately,  "  I  am  going  away. 
You  have  ruined  this  place  for  me.  I  couldn't  live  here 
where  I  should  have  to  see  you,  or  the  results  of  what 
you  have  done,  whenever  I  stirred  out  of  doors." 

"  Nonsense,  Presley,"  answered  the  other,  refusing  to 
become  angry.  "  That's  foolishness,  that  kind  of  talk ; 
though,  of  course,  I  understand  how  you  feel.  I  guess  it 
was  you,  wasn't  it,  who  threw  that  bomb  into  my  house  ?" 

"  It  was." 

"  Well,  that  don't  show  any  common  sense,  Presley," 
returned  S.  Behrman  with  perfect  aplomb.  "  What  could 
you  have  gained  by  killing  me  ?  " 

"  Not  so  much  probably  as  you  have  gained  by  killing 
Harran  and  Annixter.  But  that's  all  passed  now.  You're 
safe  from  me"  The  strangeness  of  this  talk,  the  oddity 
of  the  situation  burst  upon  him  and  he  laughed  aloud. 
"  It  don't  seem  as  though  you  could  be  brought  to  book, 
S.  Behrman,  by  anybody,  or  by  any  means,  does  it  ?  Thev 
can't  get  at  you  through  the  courts, — the  law  can't  get 


A  Story  of  California  627 

you,  Dyke's  pistol  missed  fire  for  just  your  benefit,  and 
you  even  escaped  Caraher's  six  inches  of  plugged  gas 
pipe.  Just  what  are  we  going  to  do  with  you  ?  " 

"  Best  give  it  up,  Pres,  my  boy,"  returned  the  other. 
"  I  guess  there  ain't  anything  can  touch  me.  Well,  Mag- 
nus," he  said,  turning  once  more  to  the  Governor.  "  Well, 
I'll  think  over  what  you  say,  and  let  you  know  if  I  can 
get  the  place  for  you  in  a  day  or  two.  You  see,"  he 
idded,  "  you're  getting  pretty  old,  Magnus  Derrick." 

Presley  flung  himself  from  the  room,  unable  any  longer 
to  witness  the  depths  into  which  Magnus  had  fallen. 
What  other  scenes  of  degradation  were  enacted  in  that 
room,  how  much  further  S.  Behrman  carried  the  humilia- 
tion, he  did  not  know.  He  suddenly  felt  that  the  air  of 
the  office  was  choking  him. 

He  hurried  up  to  what  once  had  been  his  own  room. 
On  his  way  he  could  not  but  note  that  much  of  the  house 
was  in  disarray,  a  great  packing-up  was  in  progress ; 
trunks,  half-full,  stood  in  the  hallways,  crates  and  cases 
in  a  litter  of  straw  encumbered  the  rooms.  The  servants 
came  and  went  with  armfuls  of  bookst  ornaments, 
articles  of  clothing. 

Presley  took  from  his  room  only  a  few  manuscripts 
and  note-books,  and  a  small  valise  full  of  his  personal 
effects ;  at  the  doorway  he  paused  and,  holding  the  knob 
of  the  door  in  his  hand,  looked  back  into  the  room  a  very 
long  time. 

He  descended  to  the  lower  floor  and  entered  the  din- 
ing-room. Mrs.  Derrick  had  disappeared.  Presley  stood 
for  a  long  moment  in  front  of  the  fireplace,  looking 
about  the  room,  remembering  the  scenes  that  he  had 
witnessed  there — the  conference  when  Osterman  had  first 
suggested  the  fight  for  Railroad  Commissioner  and  then 
later  the  attack  on  Lyman  Derrick  and  the  sudden  revela- 
tion of  that  inconceivable  treachery.  But  as  he  stood 


628  The  Octopus 

considering  these  things  a  door  to  his  right  opened  and 
Hilma  entered  the  room. 

Presley  came  forward,  holding  out  his  hand,  all  un- 
able to  believe  his  eyes.  It  was  a  woman,  grave,  digni- 
fied, composed,  who  advanced  to  meet  him.  Hilma  was 
dressed  in  black,  the  cut  and  fashion  of  the  gown  severe, 
almost  monastic.  All  the  little  feminine  and  contradic- 
tory daintinesses  were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Her  statu- 
esque calm  evenness  of  contour  yet  remained,  but  it  was 
the  calmness  of  great  sorrow,  of  infinite  resignation. 
Beautiful  she  still  remained,  but  she  was  older.  The  seri- 
ousness of  one  who  has  gained  the  knowledge  of  the 
world — knowledge  of  its  evil — seemed  to  envelope  her. 
The  calm  gravity  of  a  great  suffering  past,  but  not  for- 
gotten, sat  upon  her.  Not  yet  twenty-one,  she  exhibited 
the  demeanour  of  a  woman  of  forty. 

The  one-time  amplitude  of  her  figure,  the  fulness  of 
hip  and  shoulder,  the  great  deep  swell  from  waist  to 
throat  were  gone.  She  had  grown  thinner  and,  in  conse- 
quence, seemed  unusually,  almost  unnaturally  tall.  Her 
neck  was  slender,  the  outline  of  her  full  lips  and  round 
chin  was  a  little  sharp ;  her  arms,  those  wonderful,  beau- 
tiful, arms  of  hers,  were  a  little  shrunken.  But  her  eyes 
were  as  wide  open  as  always,  rimmed  as  ever  by  the  thin, 
intensely  black  line  of  the  lashes  and  her  brown,  fragrant 
hair  was  still  thick,  still,  at  times,  glittered  and  corus- 
cated in  the  sun.  When  she  spoke,  it  was  with  the  old- 
time  velvety  huskiness  of  voice  that  Annixter  had  learned 
to  love  so  well. 

"  Oh,  it  is  you/'  she  said,  giving  him  her  hand.  "  You 
were  good  to  want  to  see  me  before  you  left.  I  hear  that 
you  are  going  away." 

She  sat  down  upon  the  sofa. 

"  Yes/'  Presley  answered,  drawing  a  chair  near  to  her, 
"yes,  I  felt  I  could  not  stay — down  here  any  longer.  I 


A  Story  of  California  629 

am  going  to  take  a  long  ocean  voyage.  My  ship  sails  in 
a  few  days.  But  you,  Mrs.  Annixter,  what  are  you  going 
to  do  ?  Is  there  any  way  I  can  serve  you?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  nothing.  Papa  is  doing  well. 
We  are  living  here  now." 

"You  are  well?" 

She  made  a  little  helpless  gesture  with  both  her  hands, 
smiling  very  sadly. 

"  As  you  see,"  she  answered. 

As  he  talked,  Presley  was  looking  at  her  intently.  Her 
dignity  was  a  new  element  in  her  character  and  the  cer- 
tain slender  effect  of  her  figure,  emphasised  now  by  the 
long  folds  of  the  black  gown  she  wore,  carried  it  almost 
superbly.  She  conveyed  something  of  the  impression  of 
a  queen  in  exile.  But  she  had  lost  none  of  her  woman- 
liness ;  rather,  the  contrary.  Adversity  had  softened  her, 
as  well  as  deepened  her.  Presley  saw  that  very  clearly. 
Hilma  had  arrived  now  at  her  perfect  maturity ;  she  had 
known  great  love  and  she  had  known  great  grief,  and 
the  woman  that  had  awakened  in  her  with  her  affection 
for  Annixter  had  been  strengthened  and  infinitely  en- 
nobled by  his  death. 

What  if  things  had  been  different?  Thus,  as  he  con- 
versed with  her,  Presley  found  himself  wondering.  Her 
sweetness,  her  beautiful  gentleness,  and  tenderness  were 
almost  like  palpable  presences.  It  was  almost  as  if  a 
caress  had  been  laid  softly  upon  his  cheek,  as  if  a  gentle 
hand  closed  upon  his.  Here,  he  knew,  was  sympathy; 
here,  he  knew,  was  an  infinite  capacity  for  love. 

Then  suddenly  all  the  tired  heart  of  him  went  out  to- 
wards her.  A  longing  to  give  the  best  that  was  in  him 
to  the  memory  of  her,  to  be  strong  and  noble  because  of 
her,  to  reshape  his  purposeless,  half-wasted  life  with  her 
nobility  and  purity  and  gentleness  for  his  inspiration 
leaped  all  at  once  within  him,  leaped  and  stood  firm, 


630  The  Octopus 

hardening  to  a  resolve  stronger  than  any  he  had  ever 
known. 

For  an  instant  he  told  himself  that  the  suddenness  of 
this  new  emotion  must  be  evidence  of  its  insincerity.  He 
was  perfectly  well  aware  that  his  impulses  were  abrupt 
and  of  short  duration.  But  he  knew  that  this  was  not 
sudden.  Without  realising  it,  he  had  been  from  the  first 
drawn  to  Hilma,  and  all  through  these  last  terrible  days, 
since  the  time  he  had  seen  her  at  Los  Muertos,  just  after 
the  battle  at  the  ditch,  she  had  obtruded  continually  upon 
his  thoughts.  The  sight  of  her  to-day,  more  beautiful 
than  ever,  quiet,  strong,  reserved,  had  only  brought  mat- 
ters to  a  culmination. 

"  Are  you/'  he  asked  her,  "  are  you  so  unhappy,  Hil- 
ma, that  you  can  look  forward  to  no  more  brightness  in 
your  life?" 

"  Unless  I  could  forget — forget  my  husband,"  she 
answered,  "  how  can  I  be  happy  ?  I  would  rather  be  un- 
happy in  remembering  him  than  happy  in  forgetting 
him.  He  was  my  whole  world,  literally  and  truly.  Noth- 
ing seemed  to  count  before  I  knew  him,  and  nothing  can 
count  for  me  now,  after  I  have  lost  him." 

"  You  think  now,"  he  answered,  "  that  in  being  happy 
again  you  would  be  disloyal  to  him.  But  you  will  find 
after  a  while — years  from  now — that  it  need  not  be  so. 
The  part  of  you  that  belonged  to  your  husband  can 
always  keep  him  sacred,  that  part  of  you  belongs  to  him 
and  he  to  it.  But  you  are  young;  you  have  all  your  life 
to  live  yet.  Your  sorrow  need  not  be  a  burden  to  you. 
If  you  consider  it  as  you  should — as  you  will  some  day, 
believe  me — it  will  only  be  a  great  help  to  you.  It  will 
make  you  more  noble,  a  truer  woman,  more  generous." 

"  I  think  I  see,"  she  answered,  "  and  I  never  thought 
about  it  in  that  light  before." 

"  I  want  to  help  you,"  he  answered,  "  as  you  have 


A  Story  of  California  631 

helped  me.  I  want  to  be  your  friend,  and  above  all  things 
I  do  not  want  to  see  your  life  wasted.  I  am  going  away 
and  it  is  quite  possible  I  shall  never  see  you  again,  but 
you  will  always  be  a  help  to  me." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  she  answered,  "but  I  know  you 
mean  to  be  very,  very  kind  to  me.  Yes,  I  hope  when  you 
come  back — if  you  ever  do — you  will  still  be  that.  I  do 
not  know  why  you  should  want  to  be  so  kind,  unless — 
yes,  of  course — you  were  my  husband's  dearest  friend." 

They  talked  a  little  longer,  and  at  length  Presley  rose. 

"  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  see  Mrs.  Derrick  again,"  he 
said.  "  It  would  only  serve  to  make  her  very  unhappy. 
Will  you  explain  that  to  her?  I  think  she  will  under- 
stand." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Hilma.    "  Yes,  I  will." 

There  was  a  pause.  There  seemed  to  be  nothing  more 
for  either  of  them  to  say.  Presley  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said,  as  she  gave  him  hers. 

He  carried  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  answered.  "  Good-bye  and  may  God 
bless  you." 

He  turned  away  abruptly  and  left  the  room. 

Bat  as  he  was  quietly  making  his  way  out  of  the 
house,  hoping  to  get  to  his  horse  unobserved,  he  came 
suddenly  upon  Mrs.  Dyke  and  Sidney  on  the  porch  of 
the  house.  He  had  forgotten  that  since  the  affair  at  the 
ditch,  Los  Muertos  had  been  a  home  to  the  engineer's 
mother  and  daughter. 

"  And  you,  Mrs.  Dyke,"  he  asked  as  he  took  her  hand, 
"  in  this  break-up  of  everything,  where  do  you  go  ?  " 

"  To  the  city,"  she  answered,  "  to  San  Francisco.  I 
have  a  sister  there  who  will  look  after  the  little  tad." 

"But  you,  how  about  yourself,  Mrs.  Dyke?" 

She  answered  him  in  a  quiet  voice,  monotonous,  ex- 
pressionless : 


632  The  Octopus 

"  I  am  going  to  die  very  soon,  Mr.  Presley.  There  is 
no  reason  why  I  should  live  any  longer.  My  son  is  in 
prison  for  life,  everything  is  over  for  me,  and  I  am  tired, 
worn  out." 

"  You  mustn't  talk  like  that,  Mrs.  Dyke,"  protested 
Presley,  "  nonsense ;  you  will  live  long  enough  to  see  the 
little  tad  married."  He  tried  to  be  cheerful.  But  he  knew 
his  words  lacked  the  ring  of  conviction.  Death  already 
overshadowed  the  face  of  the  engineer's  mother.  He  felt 
that  she  spoke  the  truth,  and  as  he  stood  there  speaking 
to  her  for  the  last  time,  his  arm  about  little  Sidney's 
shoulder,  he  knew  that  he  was  seeing  the  beginnings  of 
the  wreck  of  another  family  and  that,  like  Hilda  Hooven, 
another  baby  girl  was  to  be  started  in  life,  through  no 
fault  of  hers,  fearfully  handicapped,  weighed  down  at  the 
threshold  of  existence  with  a  load  of  disgrace.  Hilda 
Hooven  and  Sidney  Dyke,  what  was  to  be  their  his- 
tories? the  one,  sister  of  an  outcast;  the  other,  daughter 
of  a  convict.  And  he  thought  of  that  other  young  girl, 
the  little  Honora  Gerard,  the  heiress  of  millions,  petted, 
loved,  receiving  adulation  from  all  who  came  near  to  her,, 
whose  only  care  was  to  choose  from  among  the  multitude 
of  pleasures  that  the  world  hastened  to  present  to  her 
consideration. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,  Sidney." 

He  kissed  the  little  girl,  clasped  Mrs.  Dyke's  hand  a 
moment  with  his ;  then,  slinging  his  satchel  about  his 
shoulders  by  the  long  strap  with  which  it  was  provided, 
left  the  house,  and  mounting  his  horse  rode  away  from 
Los  Muertos  never  to  return. 

Presley  came  out  upon  the  County  Road.  At  a  little 
distance  to  his  left  he  could  see  the  group  of  buildings 
where  once  Broderson  had  lived.  These  were  being  re- 


A  Story  of  California  633 

modelled,  at  length,  to  suit  the  larger  demands  of  the 
New  Agriculture.  A  strange  man  came  out  by  the  road 
gate ;  no  doubt,  the  new  proprietor.  Presley  turned  away, 
hurrying  northwards  along  the  County  Road  by  the 
mammoth  watering-tank  and  the  long  wind-break  of 
poplars. 

He  came  to  Caraher's  place.  There  was  no  change 
here.  The  saloon  had  weathered  the  storm,  indispen- 
sable to  the  new  as  well  as  to  the  old  regime.  The  same 
dusty  buggies  and  buckboards  were  tied  under  the  shed, 
and  as  Presley  hurried  by  he  could  distinguish  Cara- 
her's voice,  loud  as  ever,  still  proclaiming  his  creed  of 
annihilation. 

Bonneville  Presley  avoided.  He  had  no  associations 
with  the  town.  He  turned  aside  from  the  road,  and  cross- 
ing the  northwest  corner  of  Los  Muertos  and  the  line  of 
the  railroad,  turned  back  along  the  Upper  Road  till  he 
came  to  the  Long  Trestle  and  Annixter's, — Silence,  deso- 
lation, abandonment. 

A  vast  stillness,  profound,  unbroken,  brooded  low  over 
all  the  place.  No  living  thing  stirred.  The  rusted  wind- 
mill on  the  skeleton-like  tower  of  the  artesian  well  was 
motionless ;  the  great  barn  empty ;  the  windows  of  the 
ranch  house,  cook  house,  and  dairy  boarded  up.  Nailed 
upon  a  tree  near  the  broken  gateway  was  a  board,  white 
painted,  with  stencilled  letters,  bearing  the  inscription : 

"Warning.  ALL  PERSONS  FOUND  TRESPASS- 
ING ON  THESE  PREMISES  WILL  BE  PROSE- 
CUTED TO  THE  FULLEST  EXTENT  OF  THE 
LAW.  By  order  P.  and  S.  W.  R.  R." 

As  he  had  planned,  Presley  reached  the  hills  by  the 
head  waters  of  Broderson's  Creek  late  in  the  afternoon. 
Toilfully  he  climbed  them,  reached  the  highest  crest,  and 
turning  about,  looked  long  and  for  the  last  time  at  all 
the  reach  of  the  valley  unrolled  beneath  him.  The  land 


634  The  Octopus 

of  the  ranches  opened  out  forever  and  forever  under  the 
stimulus  of  that  measureless  range  of  vision.  The  whole 
gigantic  sweep  of  the  San  Joaquin  expanded  Titanic  be- 
fore the  eye  of  the  mind,  flagellated  with  heat,  quivering 
and  shimmering  under  the  sun's  red  eye.  It  was  the 
season  after  the  harvest,  and  the  great  earth,  the  mother, 
after  its  period  of  reproduction,  its  pains  of  labour,  de- 
livered of  the  fruit  of  its  loins,  slept  the  sleep  of  exhaus- 
tion in  the  infinite  repose  of  the  colossus,  benignant,  eter- 
nal, strong,  the  "nourisher  of  nations,  the  feeder  of  an 
entire  world. 

And  as  Presley  looked  there  came  to  him  strong  and 
true  the  sense  and  the  significance  of  all  the  enigma  of 
growth.  He  seemed  for  one  instant  to  touch  the  explana- 
tion of  existence.  Men  were  nothings,  mere  animalcule, 
mere  ephemerides  that  fluttered  and  fell  and  were  for- 
gotten between  dawn  and  dusk.  Vanamee  had  said  there 
was  no  death.  But  for  one  second  Presley  could  go  one 
step  further.  Men  were  naught,  death  was  naught,  life 
was  naught ;  FORCE  only  existed — FORCE  that  brought  men 
into  the  world,  FORCE  that  crowded  them  out  of  it  to  make 
way  for  the  succeeding  generation,  FORCE  that  made  the 
wheat  grow,  FORCE  that  garnered  it  from  the  soil  to  give 
place  to  the  succeeding  crop. 

It  was  the  mystery  of  creation,  the  stupendous  miracle 
of  re-creation ;  the  vast  rhythm  of  the  seasons,  measured, 
alternative,  the  sun  and  the  stars  keeping  time  as  the 
eternal  symphony  of  reproduction  swung  in  its  tre- 
mendous cadences  like  the  colossal  pendulum  of  an  al- 
mighty machine — primordial  energy  flung  out  from  the 
hand  of  the  Lord  God  himself,  immortal,  calm,  infinitely 
strong. 

But  as  he  stood  thus  looking  down  upon  the  great  val- 
ley he  was  aware  of  the  figure  of  a  man,  far  in  the  dis- 
tance, moving  steadily  towards  the  Mission  of  San  Juan. 


A  Story  of  California  635 

The  man  was  hardly  more  than  a  dot,  but  there  was 
something  unmistakably  familiar  in  his  gait;  and  be- 
sides this,  Presley  could  fancy  that  he  was  hatless.  He 
touched  his  pony  with  his  spur.  The  man  was  Vanamee 
beyond  all  doubt,  and  a  little  later  Presley,  descending 
the  maze  of  cow-paths  and  cattle-trails  that  led  down  to- 
wards the  Broderson  Creek,  overtook  his  friend. 

Instantly  Presley  was  aware  of  an  immense  change. 
Vanamee's  face  was  still  that  of  an  ascetic,  still  glowed 
with  the  rarefied  intelligence  of  a  young  seer,  a  half- 
inspired  shepherd-prophet  of  Hebraic  legends ;  but  the 
shadow  of  that  great  sadness  which  for  so  long  had 
brooded  over  him  was  gone;  the  grief  that  once  he  had 
fancied  deathless  was,  indeed,  dead,  or  rather  swallowed 
up  in  a  victorious  joy  that  radiated  like  sunlight  at  dawn 
from  the  deep-set  eyes,  and  the  hollow,  swarthy  cheeks. 
They  talked  together  till  nearly  sundown,  but  to  Pres- 
ley's questions  as  to  the  reasons  for  Vanamee's  happiness, 
the  other  would  say  nothing.  Once  only  he  allowed  him- 
self to  touch  upon  the  subject. 

"Death  and  grief  are  little  things,"  he  said.  "They 
are  transient.  Life  must  be  before  death,  and  joy  before 
grief.  Else  there  are  no  such  things  as  death  or  grief. 
These  are  only  negatives.  Life  is  positive.  Death  is  only 
the  absence  of  life,  just  as  night  is  only  the  absence  of 
day,  and  if  this  is  so,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  death. 
There  is  only  life,  and  the  suppression  of  life,  that  we, 
foolishly,  say  is  death.  'Suppression/  I  say,  not  extinc- 
tion. I  do  not  say  that  life  returns.  Life  never  departs. 
Life  simply  is.  For  certain  seasons,  it  is  hidden  in  the 
dark,  but  is  that  death,  extinction,  annihilation?  I  take 
it,  thank  God,  that  it  is  not.  Does  the  grain  of  wheat, 
hidden  for  certain  seasons  in  the  dark,  die?  The  grain 
we  think  is  dead  resumes  again;  but  how?  Not  as  one 
grain,  but  as  twenty.  So  all  life.  Death  is  only  real  for 


636  The  Octopus 

all  the  detritus  of  the  world,  for  all  the  sorrow,  for  all 
the  injustice,  for  all  the  grief.  Presley,  the  good  never 
dies;  evil  dies,  cruelty,  oppression,  selfishness,  greed — • 
these  die ;  but  nobility,  but  love,  but  sacrifice,  but  generos- 
ity, but  truth,  thank  God  for  it,  small  as  they  are,  difficult 
as  it  is  to  discover  them — these  live  forever,  these  are  eter- 
nal. You  are  all  broken,  all  cast  down  by  what  you  have 
seen  in  this  valley,  this  hopeless  struggle,  this  apparently 
hopeless  despair.  Well,  the  end  is  not  yet.  What  is  it 
that  remains  after  all  is  over,  after  the  dead  are  buried 
and  the  hearts  are  broken?  Look  at  it  all  from  the  vast 
height  of  humanity — 'the  greatest  good  to  the  greatest 
numbers/  What  remains?  Men  perish,  men  are  cor- 
rupted, hearts  are  rent  asunder,  but  what  remains  un- 
touched, unassailable,  undefiled?  Try  to  find  that,  not 
only  in  this,  but  in  every  crisis  of  the  world's  life,  and 
you  will  find,  if  your  view  be  large  enough,  that  it  is  not 
evil,  but  good,  that  in  the  end  remains." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Presley,  his  mind  full  of 
new  thoughts,  held  his  peace,  and  Vanamee  added  at 
length : 

"  I  believed  Angele  dead.  I  wept  over  her  grave ; 
mourned  for  her  as  dead  in  corruption.  She  has  come 
back  to  me,  more  beautiful  than  ever.  Do  not  ask  me 
any  further.  To  put  this  story,  this  idyl,  into  words, 
would,  for  me,  be  a  profanation.  This  must  suffice  you. 
Angele  has  returned  to  me,  and  I  am  happy.  Adios." 

He  rose  suddenly.  The  friends  clasped  each  other's 
hands. 

"  We  shall  probably  never  meet  again/ 'said  Vanamee; 
"  but  if  these  are  the  last  words  I  ever  speak  to  you,  listen 
to  them,  and  remember  them,  because  I  know  I  speak  the 
truth.  Evil  is  short-lived.  Never  judge  of  the  whole 
round  of  life  by  the  mere  segment  you  can  see.  The 
whole  is,  in  the  end,  perfect." 


A  Story  of  California  637 

Abruptly  he  took  himself  away.  He  was  gone.  Pres- 
ley, alone,  thoughtful,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him, 
passed  on  through  the  ranches — here  teeming  with 
ripened  wheat — his  face  set  from  them  forever. 

Not  so  Vanamee.  For  hours  he  roamed  the  country- 
side, now  through  the  deserted  cluster  of  buildings  that 
had  once  been  Annixter's  home;  now  through  the 
rustling  and,  as  yet,  uncut  wheat  of  Quien  Sabe !  now 
treading  the  slopes  of  the  hills  far  to  the  north,  and  again 
following  the  winding  courses  of  the  streams.  Thus  he 
spent  the  night. 

At  length,  the  day  broke,  resplendent,  cloudless.  The 
night  was  passed.  There  was  all  the  sparkle  and  effer- 
vescence of  joy  in  the  crystal  sunlight  as  the  dawn  ex- 
panded roseate,  and  at  length  flamed  dazzling  to  the 
zenith  when  the  sun  moved  over  the  edge  of  the  world 
and  looked  down  upon  all  the  earth  like  the  eye  of  God 
the  Father. 

At  the  moment,  Vanamee  stood  breast-deep  in  the 
wheat  in  a  solitary  corner  of  the  Quien  Sabe  rancho.  He 
turned  eastward,  facing  the  celestial  glory  of  the  day  and 
sent  his  voiceless  call  far  from  him  across  the  golden 
grain  out  towards  the  little  valley  of  flowers. 

Swiftly  the  answer  came.  It  advanced  to  meet  him. 
The  flowers  of  the  Seed  ranch  were  gone,  dried  and 
parched  by  the  summer's  sun,  shedding  their  seed  by 
handfuls  to  be  sown  again  and  blossom  yet  another  time. 
The  Seed  ranch  was  no  longer  royal  with  colour.  The 
roses,  the  lilies,  the  carnations,  the  hyacinths,  the  pop- 
pies, the  violets,  the  mignonette,  all  these  had  vanished, 
the  little  valley  was  without  colour ;  where  once  it  had  ex- 
haled the  most  delicious  perfume,  it  was  now  odourless. 
Under  the  blinding  light  of  the  day  it  stretched  to  its 
hillsides,  bare,  brown,  unlovely.  The  romance  of  the 
place  had  vanished,  but  with  it  had  vanished  the  Vision. 


638  The  Octopus 

It  was  no  longer  a  figment  of  his  imagination,  a  creature 
of  dreams  that  advanced  to  meet  Vanamee.  It  was  Real- 
ity— it  was  Angele  in  the  flesh,  vital,  sane,  material,  who 
at  last  issued  forth  from  the  entrance  of  the  little  valley. 
Romance  had  vanished,  but  better  than  romance  was 
here.  Not  a  manifestation,  not  a  dream,  but  her  very 
self.  The  night  was  gone,  but  the  sun  had  risen;  the 
flowers  had  disappeared,  but  strong,  vigorous,  noble,  the 
wheat  had  come. 

In  the  wheat  he  waited  for  her.  He  saw  her  coming. 
She  was  simply  dressed.  No  fanciful  wreath  of  tube- 
roses was  about  her  head  now,  no  strange  garment  of 
red  and  gold  enveloped  her  now.  It  was  no  longer  an 
ephemeral  illusion  of  the  night,  evanescent,  mystic,  but 
a  simple  country  girl  coming  to  meet  her  lover.  The 
vision  of  the  night  had  been  beautiful,  but  what  was  it 
compared  to  this?  Reality  was  better  than  Romance. 
The  simple  honesty  of  a  loving,  trusting  heart  was  better 
than  a  legend  of  flowers,  an  hallucination  of  the  moon- 
light. She  came  nearer.  Bathed  in  sunlight,  he  saw  her 
face  to  face,  saw  her  hair  hanging  in  two  straight  plaits 
on  either  side  of  her  face,  saw  the  enchanting  fulness  of 
her  lips,  the  strange,  balancing  movement  of  her  head 
upon  her  slender  neck.  But  now  she  was  no  longer 
asleep.  The  wonderful  eyes,  violet  blue,  heavy-lidded, 
with  their  perplexing,  oriental  slant  towards  the  temples, 
were  wide  open  and  fixed  upon  his. 

From  out  the  world  of  romance,  out  of  the  moonlight 
and  the  star  sheen,  out  of  the  faint  radiance  of  the  lilies 
and  the  still  air  heavy  with  perfume,  she  had  at  last  come 
to  him.  The  moonlight,  the  flowers,  and  the  dream  were 
all  vanished  away.  Angele  was  realised  in  the  Wheat. 
She  stood  forth  in  the  sunlight,  a  fact,  and  no  longer  a 
fancy. 

He  ran  forward  to  meet  her  and  she  held  out  her  arms 


A  Story  of  California  639 

to  him.  He  caught  her  to  him,  and  she,  turning  her  face 
to  his,  kissed  him  on  the  mouth. 

"  I  love  you,  I  love  you/'  she  murmured. 

Upon  descending  from  his  train  at  Port  Costa,  S. 
Behrman  asked  to  be  directed  at  once  to  where  the  bark 
"  Swanhilda "  was  taking  on  grain.  Though  he  had 
bought  and  greatly  enlarged  his  new  elevator  at  this  port, 
he  had  never  seen  it.  The  work  had  been  carried  on 
through  agents,  S.  Behrman  having  far  too  many  and 
more  pressing  occupations  to  demand  his  presence  and 
attention.  Now,  however,  he  was  to  see  the  concrete 
evidence  of  his  success  for  the  first  time. 

He  picked  his  way  across  the  railroad  tracks  to  the 
line  of  warehouses  that  bordered  the  docks,  numbered 
with  enormous  Roman  numerals  and  full  of  grain  in 
bags. 

The  sight  of  these  bags  of  grain  put  him  in  mind  of 
the  fact  that  among  all  the  other  shippers  he  was  prac- 
tically alone  in  his  way  of  handling  his  wheat.  They 
handled  the  grain  in  bags;  he,  however,  preferred  it  in 
the  bulk.  Bags  were  sometimes  four  cents  apiece,  and 
he  had  decided  to  build  his  elevator  and  bulk  his  grain 
therein,  rather  than  to  incur  this  expense.  Only  a  small 
part  of  his  wheat — that  on  Number  Three  division — 
had  been  sacked.  All  the  rest,  practically  two-thirds 
of  the  entire  harvest  of  Los  Muertos,  now  found 
itself  warehoused  in  his  enormous  elevator  at  Port 
Costa. 

To  a  certain  degree  it  had  been  the  desire  of  observing 
the  working  of  his  system  of  handling  the  wheat  in  bulk 
that  had  drawn  S.  Behrman  to  Port  Costa.  But  the  more 
powerful  motive  had  been  curiosity,  not  to  say  down- 
right sentiment.  So  long  had  he  planned  for  this  day  of 
triumph,  so  eagerly  had  he  looked  forward  to  it,  that 


640  The  Octopus 

now,  when  it  had  come,  he  wished  to  enjoy  it  to  its  full- 
est extent,  wished  to  miss  no  feature  of  the  disposal  of 
the  crop.  He  had  watched  it  harvested,  he  had  watched 
it  hauled  to  the  railway,  and  now  would  watch  it  as  it 
poured  into  the  hold  of  the  ship,  would  even  watch  the 
ship  as  she  cleared  and  got  under  way. 

He  passed  through  the  warehouses  and  came  out  upon 
the  dock  that  ran  parallel  with  the  shore  of  the  bay.  A 
great  quantity  of  shipping  was  in  view,  barques  for  the 
most  part,  Cape  Homers,  great,  deep  sea  tramps,  whose 
iron-shod  forefeet  had  parted  every  ocean  the  world 
round  from  Rangoon  to  Rio  Janeiro,  and  from  Mel- 
bourne to  Christiania.  Some  were  still  in  the  stream, 
loaded  with  wheat  to  the  Plimsoll  mark,  ready  to  depart 
with  the  next  tide.  But  many  others  laid  their  great 
flanks  alongside  the  docks  and  at  that  moment  were 
being  filled  by  derrick  and  crane  with  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  bags  of  wheat.  The  scene  was  brisk;  the 
cranes  creaked  and  swung  incessantly  with  a  rattle  of 
chains ;  stevedores  and  wharfingers  toiled  and  perspired ; 
boatswains  and  dock-masters  shouted  orders,  drays  rum- 
bled, the  water  lapped  at  the  piles;  a  group  of  sailors, 
painting  the  flanks  of  one  of  the  great  ships,  raised  an 
occasional  chanty;  the  trade  wind  sang  seolian  in  the 
cordages,  filling1  the  air  with  the  nimble  taint  of  salt. 
All  around  were  the  noises  of  ships  and  the  feel  and 
flavor  of  the  sea. 

S.  Behrman  soon  discovered  his  elevator.  It  was  the 
largest  structure  discernible,  and  upon  its  red  roof,  in 
enormous  white  letters,  was  his  own  name.  Thither,  be- 
tween piles  of  grain  bags,  halted  drays,  crates  and  boxes 
of  merchandise,  with  an  occasional  pyramid  of  salmon 
cases,  S.  Behrman  took  his  way.  Cabled  to  the  dock, 
close  under  his  elevator,  lay  a  great  ship  with  lofty  masts 
and  great  spars.  Her  stern  was  toward  him  as  he  ap- 


A  Story  of  California  641 

preached,  and  upon  it,  in  raised  golden  letters,  he  could 
read  the  words  "  Swanhilda — Liverpool." 

He  went  aboard  by  a  very  steep  gangway  and  found 
the  mate  on  the  quarter  deck.  S.  Behrman  introduced 
himself. 

"  Well,"  he  added,  "  how  are  you  getting  on? " 

"  Very  fairly,  sir,"  returned  the  mate,  who  was  an 
Englishman.  "We'll  have  her  all  snugged  down  tight  by 
this  time,  day  after  to-morrow.  It's  a  great  saving  of 
time  shunting  the  stuff  in  her  like  that,  and  three  men 
can  do  the  work  of  seven/' 

"  I'll  have  a  look  'round,  I  believe,"  returned  S.  Behr- 
man. 

"  Right — oh,"  answered  the  mate  with  a  nod. 

S.  Behrman  went  forward  to  the  hatch  that  opened 
down  into  the  vast  hold  of  the  ship.  A  great  iron  chute 
connected  this  hatch  with  the  elevator,  and  through  it  was 
rushing  a  veritable  cataract  of  wheat. 

It  came  from  some  gigantic  bin  within  the  elevator 
itself,  rushing  down  the  confines  of  the  chute  to  plunge 
into  the  roomy,  gloomy  interior  of  the  hold  with  an  in- 
cessant, metallic  roar,  persistent,  steady,  inevitable.  No 
men  were  in  sight.  The  place  was  deserted.  No  human 
agency  seemed  to  be  back  of  the  movement  of  the  wheat. 
Rather,  the  grain  seemed  impelled  with  a  force  of  its  own, 
a  resistless,  huge  force,  eager,  vivid,  impatient  for  the 
sea. 

S.  Behrman  stood  watching,  his  ears  deafened  with  the 
roar  of  the  hard  grains  against  the  metallic  lining  of 
the  chute.  He  put  his  hand  once  into  the  rushing  tide, 
and  the  contact  rasped  the  flesh  of  his  fingers  and 
like  an  undertow  drew  his  hand  after  it  in  its  impetuous 
dash. 

Cautiously  he  peered  down  into  the  hold.  A  musty 
odour  rose  to  his  nostrils',  the  vigorous,  pungent  aroma 
41 


642  The  Octopus 

of  the  raw  cereal.  It  was  dark.  He  could  see  nothing; 
but  all  about  and  over  the  opening  of  the  hatch  the  air 
was  full  of  a  fine,  impalpable  dust  that  blinded  the  eyes 
and  choked  the  throat  and  nostrils. 

As  his  eyes  became  used  to  the  shadows  of  the  cavern 
below  him,  he  began  to  distinguish  the  grey  mass  of  the 
wheat,  a  great  expanse,  almost  liquid  in  its  texture, 
which,  as  the  cataract  from  above  plunged  into  it,  moved 
and  shifted  in  long,  slow  eddies.  As  he  stood  there,  this 
cataract  on  a  sudden  increased  in  volume.  He  turned 
about,  casting  his  eyes  upward  toward  the  elevator  to 
discover  the  cause.  His  foot  caught  in  a  coil  of  rope,  and 
he  fell  headforemost  into  the  hold. 

The  fall  was  a  long  one  and  he  struck  the  surface  of 
the  wheat  with  the  sodden  impact  of  a  bundle  of  damp 
clothes.  For  the  moment  he  was  stunned.  All  the  breath 
was  driven  from  his  body.  He  could  neither  move  nor 
cry  out.  But,  by  degrees,  his  wits  steadied  themselves 
and  his  breath  returned  to  him.  He  looked  about  and 
above  him.  The  daylight  in  the  hold  was  dimmed  and 
clouded  by  the  thick,  chaff-dust  thrown  off  by  the  pour 
of  grain,  and  even  this  dimness  dwindled  to  twilight  at  a 
short  distance  from  the  opening  of  the  hatch,  while  the 
remotest  quarters  were  lost  in  impenetrable  blackness. 
He  got  upon  his  feet  only  to  find  that  he  sunk  ankle  deep 
in  the  loose  packed  mass  underfoot. 

"  Hell,"  he  muttered,  "here's  a  fix." 

Directly  underneath  the  chute,  the  wheat,  as  it  poured 
in,  raised  itself  in  a  conical  mound,  but  from  the  sides 
of  this  mound  it  shunted  away  incessantly  in  thick  lay- 
ers, flowing  in  all  directions  with  the  nimbleness  of  water. 
Even  as  S.  Behrman  spoke,  a  wave  of  grain  poured 
around  his  legs  and  rose  rapidly  to  the  level  of  his  knees. 
He  stepped  quickly  back.  To  stay  near  the  chute  would 
soon  bury  him  to  the  waist. 


A  Story  of  California  643 

No  doubt,  there  was  some  other  exit  from  the  hold, 
some  companion  ladder  that  led  up  to  the  deck.  He 
scuffled  and  waded  across  the  wheat,  groping  in  the 
dark  with  outstretched  hands.  With  every  inhalation  he 
choked,  filling  his  mouth  and  nostrils  more  with  dust  than 
with  air.  At  times  he  could  not  breathe  at  all,  but  gagged 
and  gasped,  his  lips  distended.  But  search  as  he  would, 
he  could  find  no  outlet  to  the  hold,  no  stairway,  no  com- 
panion ladder.  Again  and  again,  staggering  along  in  the 
black  darkness,  he  bruised  his  knuckles  and  forehead 
against  the  iron  sides  of  the  ship.  He  gave  up  the  at- 
tempt to  find  any  interior  means  of  escape  and  returned 
laboriously  to  the  space  under  the  open  hatchway. 
Already  he  could  see  that  the  level  of  the  wheat  was 
raised. 

"  God,"  he  said,  "  this  isn't  going  to  do  at  all."  He 
uttered  a  great  shout.  "  Hello,  on  deck  there,  somebody. 
For  God's  sake." 

The  steady,  metallic  roar  of  the  pouring  wheat 
drowned  out  his  voice.  He  could  scarcely  hear  it  himself 
above  the  rush  of  the  cataract.  Besides  this,  he  found  it 
impossible  to  stay  under  the  hatch.  The  flying  grains  of 
wheat,  spattering  as  they  fell,  stung  his  face  like  wind- 
driven  particles  of  ice.  It  was  a  veritable  torture;  his 
hands  smarted  with  it.  Once  he  was  all  but  blinded. 
Furthermore,  the  succeeding  waves  of  wheat,  rolling 
from  the  mound  under  the  chute,  beat  him  back,  swirling 
and  dashing  against  his  legs  and  knees,  mounting 
swiftly  higher,  carrying  him  off  his  feet. 

Once  more  he  retreated,  drawing  back  from  beneath 
the  hatch.  He  stood  still  for  a  moment  and  shouted 
again.  It  was  in  vain.  His  voice  returned  upon  him, 
unable  to  penetrate  the  thunder  of  the  chute,  and  horri- 
fied, he  discovered  that  so  soon  as  he  stood  motionless 
upon  the  wheat.,  he  sank  into  it.  Before  he  knew  it,  he 


644  The  Octopus 

was  knee-deep  again,  and  a  long  swirl  of  grain  sweeping 
outward  from  the  ever-breaking,  ever-reforming  pyramid 
below  the  chute,  poured  around  his  thighs,  immobolising 
him. 

A  frenzy  of  terror  suddenly  leaped  to  life  within  him. 
The  horror  of  death,  the  Fear  of  The  Trap,  shook  him 
like  a  dry  reed.  Shouting,  he  tore  himself  free  of  the 
wheat  and  once  more  scrambled  and  struggled  towards 
the  hatchway.  He  stumbled  as  he  reached  it  and  fell  di- 
rectly beneath  the  pour.  Like  a  storm  of  small  shot,  mer- 
cilessly, pitilessly,  the  unnumbered  multitude  of  hurtling 
grains  flagellated  and  beat  and  tore  his  flesh.  Blood 
streamed  from  his  forehead  and,  thickening  with  the 
powder-like  chaff-dust,  blinded  his  eyes.  He  struggled 
to  his  feet  once  more.  An  avalanche  from  the  cone  of 
wheat  buried  him  to  his  thighs.  He  was  forced  back  and 
back  and  back,  beating  the  air,  falling,  rising,  howling 
for  aid.  He  could  no  longer  see ;  his  eyes,  crammed  with 
dust,  smarted  as  if  transfixed  with  needles  whenever  he 
opened  them.  His  mouth  was  full  of  the  dust,  his  lips 
were  dry  with  it;  thirst  tortured  him,  while  his  outcries 
choked  and  gagged  in  his  rasped  throat. 

And  all  the  while  without  stop,  incessantly,  inexorably, 
the  wheat,  as  if  moving  with  a  force  all  its  own,  shot 
downward  in  a  prolonged  roar,  persistent,  steady,  inevi- 
table. 

He  retreated  to  a  far  corner  of  the  hold  and  sat  down 
with  his  back  against  the  iron  hull  of  the  ship  and  tried 
to  collect  his  thoughts,  to  calm  himself.  Surely  there 
must  be  some  way  of  escape;  surely  he  was  not  to  die 
like  this,  die  in  this  dreadful  substance  that  was  neither 
solid  nor  fluid.  What  was  he  to  do?  How  make  himself 
heard? 

But  even  as  he  thought  about  this,  the  cone  under  the 
chute  broke  again  and  sent  a  great  layer  of  grain  rippling 


A  Story  of  California  645 

and  tumbling  toward  him.   It  reached  him  where  he  sat 
and  buried  his  hand  and  one  foot. 

He  sprang  up  trembling  and  made  for  another  corner. 

"By  God,"  he  cried,  "by  God,  I  must  think  of  some- 
thing pretty  quick ! " 

Once  more  the  level  of  the  wheat  rose  and  the  grains 
began  piling  deeper  about  him.  Once  more  he  retreated. 
Once  more  he  crawled  staggering  to  the  foot  of  the  cata- 
ract, screaming  till  his  ears  sang  and  his  eyeballs  strained 
in  their  sockets,  and  once  more  the  relentless  tide  drove 
him  back. 

Then  began  that  terrible  dance  of  death;  the  man 
dodging,  doubling,  squirming,  hunted  from  one  corner  to 
another,  the  wheat  slowly,  inexorably  flowing,  rising, 
spreading  to  every  angle,  to  every  nook  and  cranny.  It 
reached  his  middle.  Furious  and  with  bleeding  hands 
and  broken  nails,  he  dug  his  way  out  to  fall  backward, 
all  but  exhausted,  gasping  for  breath  in  the  dust- 
thickened  air.  Roused  again  by  the  slow  advance  of  the 
tide,  he  leaped  up  and  stumbled  away,  blinded  with  the 
agony  in  his  eyes,  only  to  crash  against  the  metal  hull 
of  the  vessel.  He  turned  about,  the  blood  streaming  from 
his  face,  and  paused  to  collect  his  senses,  and  with  a 
rush,  another  wave  swirled  about  his  ankles  and  knees. 
Exhaustion  grew  upon  him.  To  stand  still  meant  to  sink ; 
to  lie  or  sit  meant  to  be  buried  the  quicker ;  and  all  this 
in  the  dark,  all  this  in  an  air  that  could  scarcely  be 
breathed,  all  this  while  he  fought  an  enemy  that  could 
not  be  gripped,  toiling  in  a  sea  that  could  not  be  stayed. 

Guided  by  the  sound  of  the  falling  wheat,  S.  Behrman 
crawled  on  hands  and  knees  toward  the  hatchway.  Once 
more  he  raised  his  voice  in  a  shout  for  help.  His  bleeding 
throat  and  raw,  parched  lips  refused  to  utter  but  a  wheez- 
ing moan.  Once  more  he  tried  to  look  toward  the  one 
patch  of  faint  light  above  him.  His  eye-lids,  clogged  with 


646  The  Octopus 

chaff,  could  no  longer  open.  The  Wheat  poured  about 
his  waist  as  he  raised  himself  upon  his  knees. 

Reason  fled.  Deafened  with  the  roar  of  the  grain, 
blinded  and  made  dumb  with  its  chaff,  he  threw  himself 
forward  with  clutching  ringers,  rolling  upon  his  back,  and 
lay  there,  moving  feebly,  the  head  rolling  from  side  to 
side.  The  Wheat,  leaping  continuously  from  the  chute, 
poured  around  him.  It  rilled  the  pockets  of  the  coat,  it 
crept  up  the  sleeves  and  trouser  legs,  it  covered  the 
great,  protuberant  stomach,  it  ran  at  last  in  rivulets 
into  the  distended,  gasping  mouth.  It  covered  the  face. 

Upon  the  surface  of  the  Wheat,  under  the  chute,  noth- 
ing moved  but  the  Wheat  itself.  There  was  no  sign  of 
life.  Then,  for  an  instant,  the  surface  stirred.  A  hand, 
fat,  with  short  fingers  and  swollen  veins,  reached  up, 
clutching,  then  fell  limp  and  prone.  In  another  instant  it 
was  covered.  In  the  hold  of  the  "  Swanhilda  "  there  was 
no  movement  but  the  widening  ripples  that  spread  flow- 
ing from  the  ever-breaking,  ever-reforming  cone ;  no 
sound,  but  the  rushing  of  the  Wheat  that  continued  to 
plunge  incessantly  from  the  iron  chute  in  a  prolonged 
roar,  persistent,  steady,  inevitable. 


CONCLUSION 

The  "Swanhilda"  cast  off  from  the  docks  at  Port  Costa 
two  days  after  Presley  had  left  Bonneville  and  the 
ranches  and  made  her  way  up  to  San  Francisco,  anchor- 
ing in  the  stream  off  the  City  front.  A  few  hours  after 
her  arrival,  Presley,  waiting  at  his  club,  received  a  de- 
spatch from  Cedarquist  to  the  effect  that  she  would  clear 
early  the  next  morning  and  that  he  must  be  aboard  of 
her  before  midnight. 

He  sent  his  trunks  aboard  and  at  once  hurried  to 
Cedafquist's  office  to  say  good-bye.  He  found  the  manu- 
facturer in  excellent  spirits. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Lyman  Derrick  now,  Pres- 
ley ?  "  he  said,  when  Presley  had  sat  down.  "  He's  in  the 
new  politics  with  a  vengeance,  isn't  he?  And  our  own 
dear  Railroad  openly  acknowledges  him  as  their  candi- 
date. You've  heard  of  his  canvass." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  answered  Presley.  "  Well,  he  knows  his 
business  best." 

But  Cedarquist  was  full  of  another  idea :  his  new  ven- 
ture— the  organizing  of  a  line  of  clipper  wheat  ships  for 
Pacific  and  Oriental  trade — was  prospering. 

"The  '  Swanhilda  '  is  the  mother  of  the  fleet,  Pres.  I 
had  to  buy  her,  but  the  keel  of  her  sister  ship  will  be  laid 
by  the  time  she  discharges  at  Calcutta.  We'll  carry  our 
wheat  into  Asia  yet.  The  Anglo-Saxon  started  from  there 
at  the  beginning  of  everything  and  it's  manifest  destiny 
that  he  must  circle  the  globe  and  fetch  up  where  he  be- 
gan his  march.  You  are  up  with  procession,  Pres,  going 
to  India  this  way  in  a  wheat  ship  that  flies  American 


648  The  Octopus 

colours.  By  the  way,  do  you  know  where  the  money  is  to 
come  from  to  build  the  sister  ship  of  the  '  Swanhilda '  ? 
From  the  sale  of  the  plant  and  scrap  iron  of  the  Atlas 
Works.  Yes,  I've  given  it  up  definitely,  that  business. 
The  people  here  would  not  back  me  up.  But  I'm  working 
off  on  this  new  line  now.  It  may  break  me,  but  we'll  try 
it  on.  You  know  the  '  Million  Dollar  Fair '  was  formally 
opened  yesterday.  There  is,"  he  added  with  a  wink,  "a 
Midway  Pleasance  in  connection  with  the  thing.  Mrs. 
Cedarquist  and  our  friend  Hartrath  '  got  up  a  subscrip- 
tion '  to  construct  a  figure  of  California — heroic  size — • 
out  of  dried  apricots.  I  assure  you,"  he  remarked  with 
prodigious  gravity,  "  it  is  a  real  work  of  art  and  quite 
a  '  feature '  of  the  Fair.  Well,  good  luck  to  you,  Pres. 
Write  to  me  from  Honolulu,  and  bon  voyage.  My  re- 
spects to  the  hungry  Hindoo.  Tell  him  '  we're  coming, 
Father  Abraham,  a  hundred  thousand  more.'  Tell  the 
men  of  the  East  to  look  out  for  the  men  of  the  West. 
The  irrepressible  Yank  is  knocking  at  the  doors  of  their 
temples  and  he  will  want  to  sell  'em  carpet-sweepers  for 
their  harems  and  electric  light  plants  for  their  temple 
shrines.  Good-bye  to  you." 

"  Good-bye,  sir." 

"  Get  fat  yourself  while  you're  about  it,  Presley,"  he 
observed,  as  the  two  stood  up  and  shook  hands. 

"  There  shouldn't  be  any  lack  of  food  on  a  wheat  ship. 
Bread  enough,  surely." 

"  Little  monotonous,  though.  '  Man  cannot  live  by 
bread  alone/  Well,  you're  really  off.  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,  sir." 

And  as  Presley  issued  from  the  building  and  stepped 
out  into  the  street,  he  was  abruptly  aware  of  a  great 
wagon  shrouded  in  white  cloth,  inside  of  which  a  bass 
drum  was  being  furiously  beaten.  On  the  cloth,  in  great 
letters,  were  the  words : 


A  Story  of  California  649 

"  Vote  for  Lyman  Derrick,  Regular  Republican  Nomi- 
nee for  Governor  of  California." 

****** 

The  "  Swanhilda  "  lifted  and  rolled  slowly,  majestically 
on  the  ground  swell  of  the  Pacific,  the  water  hissing  and 
boiling  under  her  forefoot,  her  cordage  vibrating  and 
droning  in  the  steady  rush  of  the  trade  winds.  It  was 
drawing  towards  evening  and  her  lights  had  just  been 
set.  The  master  passed  Presley,  who  was  leaning  over 
the  rail  smoking  a  cigarette,  and  paused  long  enough  to 
remark : 

"  The  land  yonder,  if  you  can  make  it  out,  is  Point 
Gordo,  and  if  you  were  to  draw  a  line  from  our  position 
now  through  that  point  and  carry  it  on  about  a  hundred 
miles  further,  it  would  just  about  cross  Tulare  County 
not  very  far  from  where  you  used  to  live." 

"  I  see,"  answered  Presley,  "  I  see.  Thanks.  I  am  glad 
to  know  that." 

The  master  passed  on,  and  Presley,  going  up  to  the 
quarter  deck,  looked  long  and  earnestly  at  the  faint  line 
of  mountains  that  showed  vague  and  bluish  above  the 
waste  of  tumbling  water. 

Those  were  the  mountains  of  the  Coast  range  and  be- 
yond them  was  what  once  had  been  his  home.  Bonne- 
ville  was  there,  and  Guadalajara  and  Los  Muertos  and 
Quien  Sabe,  the  Mission  of  San  Juan,  the  Seed  ranch, 
Annixter's  desolated  home  and  Dyke's  ruined  hop-fields. 

Well,  it  was  all  over  now,  that  terrible  drama  through 
which  he  had  lived.  Already  it  was  far  distant  from  him ; 
but  once  again  it  rose  in  his  memory,  portentous,  sombre, 
ineffaceable.  He  passed  it  all  in  review  from  the  day  of 
his  first  meeting  with  Vanamee  to  the  day  of  his  parting 
with  Hilma.  He  saw  it  all — the  great  sweep  of  country 
opening  to  view  from  the  summit  of  the  hills  at  the  head 
waters  of  Broderson's  Creek;  the  barn  dance  at  Annix- 


650  The  Octopus 

ter's,  the  harness  room  with  its  jam  of  furious  men;  the 
quiet  garden  of  the  Mission;  Dyke's  house,  his  flight 
upon  the  engine,  his  brave  fight  in  the  chaparral;  Ly- 
man  Derrick  at  bay  in  the  dining-room  of  the  ranch 
house ;  the  rabbit  drive ;  the  fight  at  the  irrigating  ditch, 
the  shouting  mob  in  the  Bonneville  Opera  House. 

The  drama  was  over.  The  fight  of  Ranch  and  Rail- 
road had  been  wrought  out  to  its  dreadful  close.  It  was 
true,  as  Shelgrim  had  said,  that  forces  rather  than  men 
had  locked  horns  in  tHat  struggle,  but  for  all  that  the 
men  of  the  Ranch  and  not  the  men  of  the  Railroad  had 
suffered.  Into  the  prosperous  valley,  into  the  quiet  com- 
munity of  farmers,  that  galloping  monster,  that  terror 
of  steel  and  steam  had  burst,  shooting  athwart  the  hori- 
zons, flinging  the  echo  of  its  thunder  over  all  the  ranches 
of  the  valley,  leaving  blood  and  destruction  in  its  path. 

Yes,  the  Railroad  had  prevailed.  The  ranches  had  been 
seized  in  the  tentacles  of  the  octopus ;  the  iniquitous  bur- 
den of  extortionate  freight  rates  had  been  imposed  like  a 
yoke  of  iron.  The  monster  had  killed  Harran,  had  killed 
Osterman,  had  killed  Broderson,  had  killed  Hooven.  It 
had  beggared  Magnus  and  had  driven  him  to  a  state  of 
semi-insanity  after  he  had  wrecked  his  honour  in  the  vain 
attempt  to  do  evil  that  good  might  come.  It  had  enticed 
Lyman  into  its  toils  to  pluck  from  him  his  manhood  and 
his  honesty,  corrupting  him  and  poisoning  him  beyond 
redemption;  it  had  hounded  Dyke  from  his  legitimate 
employment  and  had  made  of  him  a  highwayman  and 
criminal.  It  had  cast  forth  Mrs.  Hooven  to  starve  to 
death  upon  the  City  streets.  It  had  driven  Minna  to  pros- 
titution. It  had  slain  Annixter  at  the  very  moment  when 
painfully  and  manfully  he  had  at  last  achieved  his  own 
salvation  and  stood  forth  resolved  to  do  right,  to  act  un- 
selfishly and  to  live  for  others.  It  had  widowed  Hilma 
in  the  very  dawn  of  her  happiness.  It  had  killed  the  very 


A  Story  of  California  651 

babe  within  the  mother's  womb,  strangling  life  ere  yet  it 
had  been  born,  stamping  out  the  spark  ordained  by  God 
to  burn  through  all  eternity. 

What  then  was  left  ?  Was  there  no  hope,  no  outlook  for 
the  future,  no  rift  in  the  black  curtain,  no  glimmer 
through  the  night?  Was  good  to  be  thus  overthrown? 
Was  evil  thus  to  be  strong  and  to  prevail  ?  Was  nothing 
left? 

Then  suddenly  Vanamee's  words  came  back  to  his 
mind.  What  was  the  larger  view,  what  contributed  the 
greatest  good  to  the  greatest  numbers  ?  What  was  the 
full  round  of  the  circle  whose  segment  only  he  beheld  ? 
In  the  end,  the  ultimate,  final  end  of  all,  what  was  left? 
Yes,  good  issued  from  this  crisis,  untouched,  unassail- 
able, undefiled. 

Men — motes  in  the  sunshine — perished,  were  shot 
down  in  the  very  noon  of  life,  hearts  were  broken,  little 
children  started  in  life  lamentably  handicapped;  young 
girls  were  brought  to  a  life  of  shame;  old  women  died 
in  the  heart  of  life  for  lack  of  food.  In  that  little,  isolated 
group  of  human  insects,  misery,  death,  and  anguish  spun 
like  a  wheel  of  fire. 

But  the  WHEAT  remained.  Untouched,  unassailable, 
undefiled,  that  mighty  world-force,  that  nourisher  of  na- 
tions, wrapped  in  Nirvanic  calm,  indifferent  to  the  human 
swarm,  gigantic,  resistless,  moved  onward  in  its  ap- 
pointed grooves.  Through  the  welter  of  blood  at  the  irri- 
gation ditch,  through  the  sham  charity  and  shallow  phi- 
lanthropy of  famine  relief  committees,  the  great  harvest 
of  Los  Muertos  rolled  like  a  flood  from  the  Sierras  to 
the  Himalayas  to  feed  thousands  of  starving  scarecrows 
on  the  barren  plains  of  India. 

Falseness  dies;  injustice  and  oppression  in  the  end 
of  Everything  fade  and  vanish  away.  Greed,  cruelty,  sel- 
fishness, and  inhumanity  are  short-lived;  the  individual 


652  The  Octopus 

suffers,  but  the  race  goes  on.  Annixter  dies,  but  in  a  far 
distant  corner  of  the  world  a  thousand  lives  are  saved. 
The  larger  view  always  and  through  all  shams,  all 
wickednesses,  discovers  the  Truth  that  will,  in  the  end, 
prevail,  and  all  things,  surely,  inevitably,  resistlessly  work 
together  for  good. 


